


Superman is Bleeding

by ButterflyGhost



Category: due South
Genre: Case Fic, Crime, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-03
Updated: 2012-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-01 01:31:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser starts behaving strangely... well, more strangely than usual, and Ray Vecchio sets out to discover what is happening to his friend. </p><p>Featuring cabbage leaves, the frozen North and how best to defeat a Chinese vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been one of those nights. It had been one of those nights for a week now. Fraser was a light sleeper at the best of times, but every now and then he'd find that he couldn't sleep at all. That didn't generally bother him too much... but when one such night followed another, and another... well, then he started to worry.

For the last week his sleep had been deteriorating, and by his reckoning he'd had no more than six hours sleep out of the last seventy two. He was beginning to feel the effects. Normally he could have countered with some meditation or relaxation techniques... but they weren't working.

Perhaps, he thought, as he walked toward work, it was just the recent changes at the Consulate that had him on edge. His new boss wasn't making his life any easier. Irritated with himself he dismissed the possibility. He'd been in far more stressful situations. Surely it wasn't, as his friend kept implying, that he resented taking orders from a woman? No, it wasn't that. But there was no getting away from the fact that he was stressed. And at this precise moment Ray was not helping matters.

"Look, Benny, I don't care who she is, or who she thinks she is, but she's got no right pushing you round like this. Collecting her dry cleaning... she's not the boss of you."

Fraser tightened his lips, "as a matter of fact, that's exactly what she is," he corrected his friend. "She's my superior officer, and as such she is indeed the boss of me."

"Awh, Fraser, I hate to see you whipped like this. You should do something to sabotage her, so she stops asking you to collect the dry cleaning. Couldn't you crumple it up or something, or put tomato ketchup on it while she's not looking?"

Despite himself a smile twitched on the corner of Fraser's lip at that piece of advice. Then he shook his head. "Even supposing I wanted to do something like that, I really couldn't."

"Yeah, that's right, we're talking about someone who can't even steal a bar of candy."

"It wasn't a bar, it was a box of milk duds, and I'll have you know that I could have stolen it too if..."

"If it hadn't been for those pesky detectives. Yeah yeah, I know... you're squeaky clean. Bet you've never broken the law in your life."

"Well, Ray... you know that's not true. I once exchanged stolen money for diamonds in an attempt to aid a bank robber..."

"It's okay, Benny, that was different... you were trying to help a friend."

There was an awkward silence. Ray was frankly surprised that his friend had referred to Victoria at all. The woman had more than broken his heart, she had nearly destroyed him, and Ray had been sucked into it in the most painful way, nearly killing his best friend in the process. It was an unspoken agreement between them that they'd never mention it again. They'd put it behind them and made a fresh start... what was Fraser thinking of?

Fraser himself was thinking the same thing. What on earth would he bring that up for, knowing what Ray had gone through? It had just blurted out of him. Stupid, stupid Fraser, he thought, Victoria's gone.

Ray broke the silence. "Look, all I'm saying about this boss of yours is that... well, she's just like any penny ante bully. She wants to see what she can get away with. If she can get you to do her laundry she'll want to see if she can get you to carry out her trash or dust her office. You're not a chamber maid for heaven's sake."

Fraser said nothing. He'd already been required to dust and vacuum Meg Thatcher's office, but he didn't want his friend to know about it.

"Hey, Benny.. what's going on in that noggin of yours?"

He shook his head. He'd gone blank for a moment.

"Sorry Ray, I'm just tired. That's all."

"What, you not been sleeping well?"

He hadn't been sleeping at all, but rather than say that and worry his partner he presented a watered down version of the truth.

"Spot of insomnia. I'm sure it will sort itself out."

"Well, if you can't sleep put the tv on, grab a beer and watch a game..." Ray trailed off as he realised who he was talking to. "Sorry, just realised you don't have a tv... that wasn't much help, was it?"

"No, not really." Fraser sounded uncharacteristically short tempered.

Ray shrugged. "Well, if you want to unwind, come round to mine tonight, watch something asinine on the tv and eat pizza." He left out the beer part, since he was pretty sure his friend wouldn't partake. "If we watch something stupid enough you're bound to relax and fall asleep."

"Is it going to be possible to relax at your place Ray?"

"You mean is Frannie there?"

"Well, um... that's not quite what I meant. I just meant, your house is often quite full..."

"Yeah, full of the Chicago branch of the Mad Mounty fan club." Ray laughed. Then he looked at his friend with a spot of concern. "But I told you already... I've got the place to myself." Fraser looked blank, and Ray wondered if he was feeling quite all right. "Remember? My sisters have gone to Disneyland with the kids, and that meant Ma was lonely, so she's gone to not talk to her brother."

Fraser smiled. This had become a running joke, since Ma Vecchio was always falling out with her various siblings, then making up at joyous reunions. In fact, the fallings out seemed to provide them with an excuse for profuse apologies, declarations of eternal family devotion, and heroic efforts in the kitchen, finishing up with everyone feasting to excess around a laden table. Quite how Ray managed to be so skinny with such a profligate cook in the house remained a mystery.

"Alright," Fraser nodded. "If you pick the asinine show on television Diefenbaker and I will eat the pizza."

"Great," Ray grinned. He didn't like to admit it, but sometimes he got lonely. He couldn't quite figure out why, and he had the obscurely guilty feeling that he should have grown out of it, but even with the whole house full he could feel lonely. It would be nice to kick back, eat pizza and laugh at Schwarzenegger or whatever action hero they found themselves watching.

They reached the foot of the consulate steps. Fraser rolled his shoulders, and repressed a sigh, while smoothing the dry-cleaning over his left arm. He'd been trying not to think about the contents of said dry cleaning, and had arranged the various garments in such a way that he didn't have to look at the more frilly and ridiculously feminine items. He was a stickler for cleanliness and neatness himself, but even he could not see the need to dry clean a brassiere. He suspected that Meg Thatcher was attempting to embarrass him. "Thank you kindly for the invitation. I'll see you after work, Ray."

"Yeah see ya later. And remember... ketchup on her best ball gown next time. Just the tiniest smidgen... that happens often enough she'll start asking Turnbull to do it for her."

"Do what for her, Ray?"

Ray looked at his partner, and noticed the ghost of a smile. He could not be certain, you never could with Fraser, but he suspected his friend of making a joke. He went with it, and laughed. "You've got a dirty mind Benny. Okay... later." Lifting a hand casually he continued to walk, chuckling to himself as he went.

…

After running several more pointless and demeaning errands for Meg Thatcher (who was increasingly living up to her namesake's soubriquet of "Iron Lady") Fraser was released for his lunch break. He was to take the afternoon shift standing guard outside the consulate, and therefore had decided that he wasn't going to risk eating lunch at a nearby café, for fear of dropping food on his red serge suit. Ray had once referred to him as "Teflon Mounty" after emerging from yet another dumpster covered in garbage, only to discover Fraser emerging from the same dumpster looking like a model from a clothing's catalogue. Even so, Fraser was particularly tired, and didn't feel as fresh as usual. He decided to eat the sandwich at his desk. He unwrapped his lunch, stared at the unappetising concoction he had put together that morning (food preparation in any form not being one of his strong points) and surprised himself by promptly falling asleep.

He knew he was asleep because he was standing next to himself, watching his eyes close and his head sink slowly to the desk. Deeply annoyed with himself he noticed that his forehead landed right on the sandwich, and mustard squeezed out between the slices of bread.

"Wake up," he shouted at his sleeping body. "Ben," he said, "Ben, Ben, Benny, BENTON." He stopped, embarrassed, realising how ridiculous he was being. The Ben Benny Benton mantra might have worked when his Grandmother did it, but he didn't quite have her ring of authority. Besides, he knew he was asleep, it wasn't as though he didn't want to wake up. Sleeping at work wouldn't look very good if someone came in. He could just imagine Meg Thatcher's reaction if she found him sleeping at his desk... even on his lunch break. In desperation he tried pinching himself. "Ouch," he said, then rolled his eyes heavenward. Okay, so apparently you could hurt yourself in dreams, but you couldn't wake yourself up.

"Benton," a voice came from behind him, and he turned.

"Oh, hello Dad." He looked about him, admiring the Arctic splendour in which they stood. He looked back at his body, sleeping at his table. His sleeping self didn't seem to notice the fat flakes that had started tumbling out of the sky. The serge suit of the figure slumped at the table was dusted white with snow. Fraser held his hands out and looked at them. The skin under his finger nails was turning white in the bitter cold. They would be blue soon, and then...

This was a very realistic dream, he told himself. He was actually feeling the cold.

"Hello son." His father looked a little concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine... why do you ask?"

"Just that you're looking tired."

"Well, I've not been sleeping."

"You're sleeping now."

"Yes, I know that," Fraser voiced his irritation. "I'm trying to wake up."

"Well, try harder son. You can't sleep on the job."

"I'm aware of that, Dad."

"Why do you have a sandwich stuck to your forehead?"

"Excuse me?"

"You have a sandwich attached to your forehead..."

"Oh, I fell asleep on it." Fraser blushed, thinking what a ridiculous sight he must be, standing in a frozen wasteland with a corned beef and mustard sandwich stuck to his head.

"You don't mind if I eat that do you?"

"No, not at all."

Bob Fraser reached out and unpeeled the sandwich from Fraser's head. Taking a bite he pulled a face. "Can't say it's one of your best offerings."

"Sorry Dad, I didn't realise I'd be making food for you."

"Well, thanks anyway. Most food tastes of nothing here, at least this tastes of something, even if it does have too much mustard."

"You're welcome Dad. Can I ask what you're doing here?"

"I was going to ask you the same question. What are you doing here?"

"I'm allowed to be here. It's my dream."

Bob Fraser gave him a very strange look. "No son. It's my afterlife."

Fraser sat up with a shock, blinking. The sandwich fell from his forehead, scattering crumbs and mustard across his uniform. Fraser pushed his chair back, and stood, brushing bits of bread from his lap, wishing that he could occasionally bring himself to curse. The occasion seemed to demand it.

The door swung open, and Inspector Thatcher stepped in, handing him a piece of paper.

"Constable Fraser, I was looking for you. When you've finished your guard duty I want you to pop down to the supermarket and buy the items on this shopping list..." her voice trailed off, and she looked at him with disdain. "You have mustard on your head."

"Yes Sir, sorry Sir."

"Don't apologise," she snapped. "Just clean yourself up. And..." she clicked her tongue and shook her head dismissively. "Your uniform's a disgrace."

Fraser swallowed, ashamed. She looked at him for a moment longer, registering complete disgust, then shut the door.

"Oh dear," Fraser muttered, and began to clean himself up. By the time he felt himself presentable he had no time to eat. Besides, the sandwich had never looked that appealing anyway, even before he'd squished it into a flattened mess.

Never had he felt less like doing his duty. It seemed that everything he did was going wrong. Nevertheless he made his way to the bottom of the consulate steps and took up his post. Since his banishment "down South" he was often given menial and seemingly useless tasks. On his worst days he suspected this was part of a concerted effort to punish him and crush his spirits. Despite the fact that he had uncovered and avenged serious injustices while solving his father's murder the fact remained that his actions had embarrassed the Canadian authorities. They seemed to be taking great pains to let him know about it. However, no matter how useless his tasks were, nor how small his superiors tried to make him feel, duty, as always called.

Taking up his post he stood in the hot sun, with the beginning of a headache, and waited.

...

Ray bumped into his friend at the supermarket.

"Hey Benny, I didn't know you'd started shopping here..." Ray had attempted to introduce Fraser to the joy of supermarkets a while back, but on discovering that illegal horse meat was finding it's way onto their shelves supermarkets had, as far as the Mounty was concerned, lost their allure.

Fraser glanced sideways at his friend, then away, as though he were embarrassed at being caught out. Ray sighed.

"You're doing that woman's shopping, aren't you?"

"Yes Ray," Fraser admitted, "I've just finished."

"Well, so have I. So, pay up, give the wicked witch her basket of hellish ingredients, and come back to mine to eat some garlic so she can't come and suck your blood in the middle of the night."

Fraser looked a bit bewildered by Ray's flight of fancy, but said nothing.

"What, no Inuit stories?"

"About vampires? Not that I can think of... though my Grandfather told me stories about Chinese vampires. Apparently they're not so clever as their European counterparts, and if you scatter rice in front of them they have to stop to pick up every grain before they can hunt you down. Which means they don't get a chance to drink a lot of blood, since China has a great deal of readily available rice..."

"Well, that's fascinating, Fraser, as always. I'll remember that next time I have to arrest a Chinese vampire." Ray paused in his sarcasm for a moment to register a surprise. "Hang on, your Grandfather told you a story? Normally you're talking about Inuits, Shamans, your Dad or your Grandmother..."

"My Grandmother wouldn't tell me stories about vampires or other supernatural beings. She didn't hold with that kind of thing."

"Why not?"

"She didn't believe in telling lies, and she didn't believe in monsters. Hence no Father Christmas, fairy tales, ghost stories, etc."

"No Father Christmas?" Ray shook his head. That explained a lot. "But your Grandfather believed in monsters?"

"Well," Fraser said as though it were self evident, "he was married to my Grandmother."

"I heard that," his father's voice butted in. "That's my mother you're talking about."

Fraser glared at his father to be quiet. His father ignored the hint. "Of course, I know exactly what you mean, and there's nothing wrong with monsters, but even so, it's not polite to speak ill of the dead. I should know, son."

Biting his tongue Fraser paid for Meg Thatcher's goods, and packed them promptly and neatly. Ray meanwhile was struggling to cram everything into his bags, and cursing under his breath.

"Let me help you Ray," Fraser offered, and over Ray's protests started to reorganise his groceries more logically.

Between one blink and the next he wasn't in the supermarket any more. He screwed his eyes up, dazzled by the silvering sun as it swept across the snow. Random flakes struck his face as the wind blew sheer towards him.

He was standing, with a loaf of bread and a quart of milk in his hands, surrounded on all sides by thousands of miles of winter.

"You're in my afterlife again, son."

With a blink he was back, standing by a counter in a supermarket, being stared at by Ray, the supermarket teller, and his father.

"Stop visiting my afterlife," his father said.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to. It just happened."

"What, what just happened?" Ray was looking very concerned.

"I..." Fraser didn't know what to say. He was aware of all eyes on him, and that he was holding up a queue of increasingly irritated customers. "I'm just tired."

"You're dead on your feet is what you are. Come on Benny, let's get that stuff to the consulate, then you come and veg out at mine." As opposed to pass out, Ray thought. He put his hand on his friend's back supportively as they exited the store. He's probably coming down with something. Don't think he's had a cold since he's been here... you can't be that lucky forever.

….

"So, he's beginning to show signs is he?"

"Yes sir. I thought at first that it wasn't working, that he'd caught on to us somehow, but he's definitely showing the effects of it now. Just slightly, but as you know it's cumulative... it has to be gradual to look natural.

"I see. Well, keep an eye on him, and keep me up to date. And put in as much detail as you can. I want to know that he's suffering. I want to see his life fall apart."

"I can do that, sir."

The man's mouth stretched in a cold rictus, an approximation of a smile. "I know you can. That's why I hired you."


	2. Chapter 2

The evening's entertainment distracted Fraser for a while from his increasing irritation and anxiety. He surprised Ray by joining in and shouting at the ball game, even throwing a french fry at the screen in irritation as the referee missed a foul. After the food had been consumed and the ball game over a suitably asinine movie was decided on, and the friends groaned and laughed as the action movie clichés kept on coming.

"You know Benny, maybe it's not that unlikely. I've seen you do some pretty weird stuff..."

"To the best of my knowledge I've never successfully prevented a helicopter from taking off by wrapping a chain around it as anchor."

"What, you've tried it and failed?"

Fraser laughed. "No. No, my main adventures with helicopters involved falling out of them."

"You make a habit of falling out of helicopters?"

"Well, I didn't fall so much as I was pushed, and it only happened once. The other occasion... well, that was just a fluke accident."

Ray shook his head, trying not to grin. Benny had a really entertaining way of telling a story. A companionable silence fell for a while, interrupted by laughter at the television. Finally the film finished. Ray took a last pull on his beer, and looked across at Fraser. His friend had fallen asleep, sitting on the floor with his back propped up against the sofa.

"Told you pizza and TV would do the trick," Ray said to his friend, and grinned fondly.

At that moment Ray's mobile phone chirped. Cursing he hurried to answer it before it woke up the sleeper. "Yeah, Vecchio," he snapped. "This had better be important this time of the night."

"We have a missing person's report needs looking into. It could be a big one... she's local royalty, her parents have a lot of clout." Lieutenant Welsh's voice sounded even more sandpapery than usual at this time of night. "We need as many people on this as possible."

Ray groaned. He understood the urgency of helping any missing person, but it always upset him when wealth and politics afforded some people better police protection than others. "Alright, I'm coming in."

Hoping that he wouldn't wake his friend, Ray covered Fraser with one of Ma's throws. "Come on fellah," he grunted and lifted the sleeping figure, dumping him on the sofa. "Yeah, no thanks necessary," he complained. He should have remembered how heavy the guy was... "You're welcome." Fraser grumbled in his sleep and tossed the covering aside. "Don't blame me if you wake up cold," Ray counselled his friend. Well, time for him to go. He wrote a note and stuck it to the television, telling Fraser where he was. For a moment he worried. Despite the chilled out evening, Fraser hadn't looked entirely well to him. They'd had a laugh, yes... but Fraser seemed to be rambling a bit, just a little bit scattered. It was a shame Ray had to work tonight... then he shook his head. Nah... don't be daft. Fraser's a big boy, he told himself. He can take care of himself.

...

Fraser opened his eyes carefully. He was in the Vecchio's kitchen, a pile of cabbage leaves in front of him, a needle and thread. It was obviously a dream, but at least it didn't appear to be someone else's afterlife.

"Hello?" He looked around checking for any place where a phantom could hide. "You there Dad?"

Apparently he was alone. He wandered in and out of the Vecchio's rooms, and found himself sleeping awkwardly sprawled on the sofa. He tried kicking himself awake, and only succeeded in hurting his big toe. Where had Ray gone? What was he supposed to do here? He saw a note with his name written on it stuck to the television, but when he tried to pick it up his hand went right through.

This made no sense. Then, shrugging, he resigned himself to the illogic of dreams. He returned to the kitchen, sat at the table, and, for no reason that he could identify, began to sew the cabbage leaves together.

After all, it could be no less futile than dry cleaning.

…

Outside the Vecchio's apartment an insignificant looking little man made a sweep of the neighbourhood, and checked his audio equipment again. Simmon's job description was listed as "private detective", but he was currently working in another capacity altogether. He wasn't fussy how he made his money, so long as he got paid.

He had been listening, with some irritation, to the target and his friend talking to each other about the film, and so far he didn't have anything he could share to encourage his employer. The man had been very specific about how much he had wanted Fraser to suffer, and transcripts of him laughing at sports and movies while eating pizza and French fries wouldn't satisfy that particular want. Simmons knew that he had to have some demonstrable success soon, or he would find himself in serious trouble. He didn't like to think what kind of trouble that would be, given who he was working for. The target's friend had left about ten minutes earlier. There had been no sounds since.

Suddenly his machine started to click again, as a voice started up in the living room. It was the target, talking aloud. Simmons twiddled the dial, homing in on the frequency until he got a clear tone through his ear piece. He turned the corner from the Vecchio residence, and listened attentively to the man's voice. He seemed to be speaking either absolute nonsense, or a rather odd sounding foreign language. Simmons shook his head. He couldn't figure it out, having no linguistic background at all. His studies had all been forensic, chemical, observational, scientific. Ask him to cut up a frog or identify a poison, he was your man.

Like any good scientist he kept a record of his experiments.

He was sure now that the toxin was working. As well as being the result his employer wanted this gave Simmon's a great deal of personal satisfaction.

He smiled. Not a cruel smile. He didn't look like someone capable of slowly poisoning another human being for money. He looked like any other middle aged man smiling with pride at a job well done.

…

Meg Thatcher arrived at her desk fashionably late (she had very good reasons) and irate.

"Where's my coffee?" she demanded of Turnbull.

"Constable Fraser brought it earlier, but since you weren't here we couldn't enter your office... so your coffee is..." Turnbull trailed off for a moment, "here," he concluded, handing her a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm brown fluid. Meg smelled it, and pulled a face.

"Thank you," she replied, and taking the coffee cup dumped the whole thing into Turnbull's waste paper basket.

"So, where is Constable Fraser?"

"He's working in his office, Sir. Do you want me to get him?"

Meg nodded curtly. Turnbull rose, and darted off to find his colleague.

Meg sighed, stepping up to the coffee machine. She filled her own mug, took a gulp, and dropped her tense shoulders. There were times when she hated having to be so much nastier and more aggressive than a man, simply in order to win the respect her rank was due. Perhaps she was underestimating her current subordinates, but in her experience a woman had to try twice as hard to get half as far as a man. She knew she had a reputation as a hard hearted stone cold harridan, and to be honest, she was proud of that reputation. She had to protect herself somehow.

Turnbull seemed to be taking his time. What was Fraser doing now? Quietly Meg swore, placing her drink on the counter, and stalked off to find the men herself. She suspected Fraser of passive aggressive attempts to sabotage her... oh, very subtly done of course, but very very clever. There was that whole issue around his refusal to park up at the recent ambassadorial party for example. She couldn't reprimand him, because how could she reprimand someone for driving safely, and refusing to park illegally? Still, she was pretty sure she knew what the guy's game was.

"Constable Fraser..." she stepped sharply through the door, only to be blocked by Turnbull.

"Uhm, sir... if I might... there are some things I meant to talk with you about regarding the visit from the mayor of …."

"It can wait," Meg snapped, and pushed through.

Fraser was lying on his front, face propped in his hands, wearing trousers, shirt and braces, with his boots flopping sadly by a chair on which his Stetson had been tossed. It was disconcertingly like discovering him naked. His face was rather flushed, and he was muttering to himself as he peered intently at newspapers, which were scattered across the carpet.

"Constable Fraser!" Meg snapped at him in her most austere tones. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"

"Ah, yes..." he looked up at her from his position on the floor, but made no move to get to his feet. "I'm looking for her."

"For who?"

"For whom," he corrected her pedantically.

She rolled her eyes. Who followed that grammatical rule any more? "Constable Fraser, with all due regard for your superb syntax, I am not an eighteenth century novel. Do you mind telling me what you're doing on the floor?"

"Oh," he looked puzzled, then embarrassed. "Oh dear. I appear to be lying on the floor. Excuse me." Rapidly he stood, swaying for a moment, before steadying.

She peered at him intently, trying to figure out if he was pulling a fast one, or if there was actually something wrong.

"Constable, are you feeling entirely well?"

"Oh, yes Sir, I'm fine. Everything is fine. Except the cabbage leaves." He looked puzzled for a moment, and his line of vision shifted. "I'm sorry Sir, I have no idea what I'm talking about."

Meg decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She couldn't see how this performance stood to gain him anything, and she smelled no alcohol on his breath.

"Constable Fraser, I suggest you see a doctor."

"Thank you Sir, I'd prefer not to."

"Then it's not a suggestion, it's an order."

"Yes Sir."

Thatcher took Turnbull by the arm and marched him to the front desk. "See to it that he gets a doctor, and if I find out that you two are up to anything, you will both live to regret it."

Turnbull nodded, and swallowed. He was in awe of Thatcher, she was a force of nature, unstoppable. He was also, quite frankly, terrified.

"I'm on it, Sir," he said, admiringly.

She gave him one of her more pointed looks, and entered her office to start the day's work.

…

"Who are you looking for, son?"

"The girl," Fraser said, staring down at the newspapers arranged around his feet. "Sally Cooper, the missing girl."

"It's not your job, is it?"

"Isn't it?"

"You don't look well, son, I think you should let the Yanks do their job."

Fraser shook his head. Last night he had wakened from a ridiculous dream to find himself sleeping crookedly and painfully on the Vecchio couch. Ray was gone, and for several moments Fraser had thought that he was still sleeping. However, this time when he reached out to unpeel the sticky note from the television it had come off in his hand. Peering through the kitchen door Fraser ascertained that there were no cabbage leaves in sight, so he looked at the note, and discovered that Ray was working.

Well, he had to help his friend.

It hadn't gone well...

His mind wandering he stood blinking at the floor. Oh dear, he thought, what am I doing?

For a full moment his mind was completely blank.

His father spoke again. "Son, sit down before you fall down."

"She's missing, I'm supposed to help Ray." He sat down, to his father's relief, and continued to stare. He rubbed his forehead hard, pushing the knuckles into it, as he attempted to puzzle out... well, whatever it was that was puzzling him.

"He won't let me help him. I don't know, did I do something? He told me to go home." The expression on Fraser's face cut his father to the core. It was hurt, and childlike. The expression he had seen on his face when he was ten and the boy's "best friend" had turned on him in a particularly nasty way. Benton was obviously thinking that his friend Ray was doing the same thing.

"Son, your Yank friend is only looking out for you. You're not well."

"I'm perfectly well," Fraser snapped. "I just need people to shut up and let me think."

The ghost stood silent. Fraser continued to stare at the newspapers. "Go away," Fraser said, under his breath. "I don't want you."

This sounded nothing like his son, but the ghost obliged. When Fraser lifted his aching head to look where his father had stood, the man was gone. Fraser covered his eyes and groaned.

…

"I'm telling you, he was acting strange, even weirder than usual." Gardino was sitting at his desk, hunched, trying to hide his mobile phone from sight. The attempt was unsuccessful, given the size of the phone, and rather than drawing less attention to himself he suddenly discovered that he was trapped under the distinctly angry glare of Detective Ray Vecchio.

"Uhm... yeah, thanks for that information, yeah, I'll remember to write it down. Thank you..." Hanging up Gardino hoped that Ray would believe his attempted cover up. But there was no getting away from it.

Ray was sitting on the edge of Gardino's desk, leaning in a little bit too closely, and looking murderous. "You're a gossip, Gardino," Ray continued to stare.

Gardino shifted uncomfortably. "I beg your pardon?"

"Just shut your big yap. Do you think you can do that?"

Gardino attempted to look nonchalant. "I don't know what you're talking about detective."

Ray continued his dirty look, until the other man looked away shiftily, and muttering excuses about needing to be somewhere, made his way out of the nearest door, while attempting to look busy.

"Vecchio, a word." The Lieutenant gestured him in. With a sigh Ray stood and marched into the office.

"Yes sir?"

"Am I correct that your partner had a … how shall I put it, a 'melt down' last night?"

"He's been under a bit of stress..."

"I'm under stress Vecchio. However, I somehow manage not to empty an entire filing cabinet and tape it across the length and breadth of the squad room's floor."

"Yes sir, I can see that sir."

"So... tell me that this is just some Canadian outback forensic technique that I've never heard of."

Ray looked at his feet. Fraser's arrival at the precinct had been excruciatingly embarrassing. So much so that Ray had lost his temper and practically shouted at his friend to leave. If there was one thing he didn't want, it was spiteful gossip about Benny circulating through the station. He had hoped that he'd managed to get him out of there in time, but Gardino's overheard conversation proved otherwise. People were laughing at his friend.

There was a hot lump of anger in his throat. He didn't know what to tell the Lieutenant, so decided to say nothing.

"I mean, we all use flow charts and such like," the Lieutenant continued, obviously looking for a shred of an excuse. "Could that have been what he was doing?"

Ray wanted dearly to believe that was what had happened. Continuing to look at his feet he managed to produce an unconvincing lie.

"I suppose it's a possibility."

"A possibility?"

"Yes sir, a possibility."

Welsh looked at his detective, and let out a sigh born of deep frustration. He'd like to be able to put Ray up for commendations and promotions... his work was surely good enough. But for every success he and the Mounty had, there was always something that put them firmly back in the department's black books. This felt like one of those occasions.

"Okay. Well, keep him away from the squad room till he's prepared to be sensible. Here in America we like to keep our filing filed."

"Yes sir."

Welsh glared across the desk. "Dismissed."

Ray turned smartly, and left the room.

…

And somewhere, hidden amidst a muddle of warehouses and container trucks, Sally Cooper has just lost control of her bladder. She lies on the concrete floor, bound hand and foot, and weeps.

When the man comes in again she knows he's telling her the truth. His jeering smile, his cold eyes, they say it all.

There is nobody coming for her. She's all alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Ray turned the evidence bag, with it's tiny scrap of paper, over and over in his hand. It was the only piece of real, physical evidence that they had. "Meet me at 491." It had been discovered pinned to her calendar, on the date she disappeared. The detectives assigned to the case (currently the majority of the station house) had been interviewing her friends, family, teachers, fellow students, and none of them had any idea what the numbers referred to.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, and resisted the urge to crumple the bag and its contents. The answer was probably staring him in the face. Nobody knew who the girl might have been meeting. Or if they did they weren't telling. Ray put the evidence back into its folder, and returned it to Elaine. "Thanks," he said, "you're a star." She looked like she needed the encouragement. She'd been working flat out for hours, and gave every impression of being as tired as Vecchio felt.

"You all right, Vecchio?" she asked.

There was an unspoken question behind her words, and Ray sighed. She was worried about Fraser. At least Ray knew that Elaine wasn't one to gossip. "Yeah, I'm fine, Elaine. We're all fine."

She nodded, accepting the lie as a polite and necessary fiction. "You want a coffee?"

"Yeah, why not?" He returned to his desk, to clear a space, when the phone rang. Hoping it was a return call from one of Sally's friends he scooped the phone up. "Detective Vecchio speaking..." his voice trailed off into silence.

Elaine looked up as she poured the coffee. Vecchio had a look of complete shock on his face.

"Yeah," he said, "I'll be right there."

"Have they found the girl?"

"No," he shook his head brusquely, "no, nothing like that."

"Is it to do with the case?"

"No it's..." he looked at her. Shook his head again. "It's nothing. It's personal. I'll clear it with Welsh when I get back..."

"Is it Fraser?"

Her rapid intuition made him look up sharply. His face twitched. "Yeah, it's Fraser. He's not well. Just... keep it to yourself, okay?"

"Okay," she put a reassuring hand on his arm. "Look after yourself."

Ray nodded distractedly, and swept out of the room, practically jogging. Elaine watched his departure, and chewed her lower lip.

…

Turnbull was as flustered as Ray had ever seen him, and even Thatcher had a look of concern etched across her face. He was no sooner inside the consulate than Turnbull had him by the shoulder and was practically dragging him across the lobby, down the corridor and to Fraser's office. Suddenly Turnbull stopped, and leaned in close to Ray. "He wouldn't see the doctor," Turnbull hissed in his ear, "said he was trying to poison him and threw him out the door."

"What?" This didn't sound like the Fraser Ray knew.

"The doctor wanted to have him... well..." he dropped his voice even lower and pressed his mouth to Ray's ear ,"committed."

Ray flinched, and tried to tell himself that it was only the uncomfortable proximity of the other man that made him nervous. There was no way that Fraser was that far gone. Okay, he might have his idiosyncrasies, his quirks perhaps, even his eccentricities... but surely he wasn't actually...

Ray was afraid of the word...

Surely he wasn't actually mad?

Diefenbaker was lying outside the door, whimpering. When he saw Ray he bounded to his feet, and pawed at his leg plaintively. Automatically Ray reached out and ran his fingers through the wolf's muzzle. Dief groaned with relief and gratitude, rubbing his head into the man's hand. "It's okay, Dief," Ray said, reassuring himself as much as the dog.

Behind the door they could hear an indistinct voice talking to itself, interspersed by occasional, slightly hysterical, giggles.

Ray knocked. The voice behind the door stopped.

"Hey, Benny, buddy... how you doing in there?"

"It's buddy now is it?" Fraser sounded petulant, sulking about something.

Ray looked at Turnbull, and shared a look of helpless bewilderment. What was going on here?

"Well... yeah, I just thought... see how you're doing."

The muttering started up again, and Ray cleared his throat. "Alright Frase, I'm coming in." He pushed the door. It met some momentary resistance, then a rasping sound like withered leaves as the door edged slowly open.

"Oh … jeez, Benny..." Ray stuttered to a halt, speechless. This was even worse than last night, in the squad room. Helplessly he stepped into the room, crunching over the papers that were scattered chaotically across the floor. Files, and old newspapers, books torn up, scattered willy nilly, taped all over the walls. More than anything the books upset him. Fraser would never tear a book... He stared at his friend. Fraser was squatting, perched up on his desk, poised in on the balls of his feet, with his arms folded solemnly across his knees. His brow was furrowed with concentration, and his eyes, set in shadowed sockets, were nearly black against his pale skin.

Ray, shocked into nonsense, blurted out ridiculously, "Jeez, Benny, you unclenched your hair."

Fraser looked up and smiled. "Careful Ray," he raised a professorial finger, acknowledging his friend's presence. "You don't want to disturb them."

"Okay... let me just..." Ray took a few cautious steps, paper rustling beneath his feet, and stretched his hands out to Fraser in a conciliatory gesture.

"Stop!" Fraser shouted. "You're disturbing the symmetry..."

Inside his head Ray was screaming... what symmetry? It's a bloody mess in here... All he said however was, "I'm sorry Fraser, I don't want to disturb anything. You mind telling me what you got here?"

Fraser darted a glance at his friend, then stared back down at the floor. He seemed to think for a moment, then nodded.

"It's a pattern," he said. "There's got to be a pattern to it, so I've put them all together to see if it makes sense..." He paused for a moment, staring at one random piece of paper. "That doesn't belong there..." he shook his head, as though dislodging flies. He turned his gaze from side to side, scanning the floor, then pivoted on his desk to take in the other side of the room. "There has to be a pattern," he said, miserably. His voice trailed off, and he muttered... "where's the pattern?"

"What's it a pattern of, Benny?"

Fraser started, turned back to Ray. "Oh, hello Ray, I didn't hear you come in. You can help me..."

"Okay, what can I do?"

Fraser pointed. "That article, it shouldn't be there..."

Ray bent carefully from the waist, so as not to disturb Fraser's chaos, and plucked up the offending article. Fraser beamed at him. "Thank you kindly." Ray felt a pang at the flash of normality. For a moment it looked like his friend was back. As swift as it came it was gone.

"What are you doing Ray?" Fraser shouted. "Don't touch it, don't touch any of it... there's a pattern. You shouldn't break the pattern."

Ray stepped backwards, dropping the article, and Fraser jumped from the desk, straight at his friend. For a horrible instant he had him by the throat. Ray swallowed, hearing his adam's apple click. Benny's face was a mask of rage... then suddenly he looked simply puzzled.

"Ray?"

"Yeah, buddy."

Fraser blinked rapidly, and stepped backwards, dropping his hand. "Ray," a little boy's voice, "what's happening?"

"I don't know Benny, but it'll be all right."

Fraser took another step backwards, and one foot slipped slightly on a mound of paper. Ray grabbed his friend to steady him.

"There has to be a pattern," Fraser whispered. He turned his head, and a look of horror came upon him, as he seemed to notice for the first time the damage he had wreaked upon his office. He covered his face.

"There is no pattern, is there?"

Ray put his arm around him, carefully. Benny laughed, a small hysterical giggle.

"There's no pattern." He heaved out a heavy breath and leaned on his friend. Ray just held him.

"There's no pattern, is there?" Fraser's head dropped, defeated, onto the protective shoulder. Ray's hand was on his hair. "No pattern at all."

…

Ray stormed back to the station house, deliberately working himself up into a fine fury. If he came in showing how he really felt there would be tears, not tantrums, and he didn't want anyone, not even Elaine, knowing how he felt. Dammit, of all the weeks for Ma to be away... they could have done something to help. Fraser could have stayed at their place... but this?

Elaine approached him, a question on her lips, but he glared at her, and barged right past. He hadn't even reached his desk when Welsh called out to him. "Vecchio!" If he says a word, Ray thought, if he says a single solitary word so help me, I'll swing for him.

He slapped the door open and stalked through, just begging for a fight. Welsh looked up at him, and raised a craggy brow, assessing the situation immediately.

"There's been another missing person's report," he said, calmly, leaning backwards to diffuse the tension. "Not as much of a priority, but seeing as you're here, I thought you should look into it."

Ah right, Vecchio though, palm the less important case off on me. He had no sooner thought it than he hated himself. It wasn't a case, it was a person. And wasn't everyone important? "Is that it, Sir?"

"Yes," Welsh spoke with uncharacteristic mildness. He knew Vecchio, and he knew that when the guy flipped out he really flipped. Welsh picked his battles wisely. This wasn't going to be one of them. Let Vecchio deal with whatever was eating him in his own way. And yes, he guessed it was to do with the Mounty. "That's everything. Notes are on your desk. Keep me updated."

"Fine." Vecchio slammed out of the office, then squeezed his eyes shut on the other side. He wanted, really wanted, to break something. To throw a tantrum. To yell and kick the walls.

"Dammit," he whispered, clenching his fists. Futility. He couldn't do a thing.

He stood for a moment, breathing hard, then opened his fists, shook out his hands, and moved, finally, to his desk.

…

Sally opens her eyes from an uneasy sleep, and rolls uncomfortably, struggling to a sitting position. She manages to wriggle herself to the sacks marked 'rice' that line one wall, and leans against them. They offer some comfort to her back... at least they are marginally softer than the chill stone of this barren room. The man is not there. But she does hear something... She strains to listen, and can hear, faintly, someone crying out, a male voice, and what sounds like blows. Is someone being beaten in another room? She despises herself for her first instinct, but thinks it anyway.

I'm glad it isn't me.

…

The mood at the consulate is dark, and Turnbull fulfils his duties with a solemn aspect. He doesn't think he'll ever get over what happened today with Constable Fraser. It was such a shock... the man was always so... what was the word? Controlled.

He's kneeling in Fraser's office, cleaning up the mess, sorting what is salvageable into organised piles, throwing out what is beyond repair. He wishes that there had been some order, some symmetry to this. Until he finally saw the contents of the office he had thought that perhaps... perhaps Fraser hadn't really cracked up. Perhaps there was some other explanation...

Then he had seen the mess.

Doggedly Turnbull remains on his knees, and gradually restores order.

He feels a sting in his eyes as he sifts through the wreckage. He knows he's not a macho man, not like Constable Fraser. Fraser is a model Mounty, a credit to Canada, a hero. This shouldn't have happened... it couldn't have happened.

Turnbull sniffles. He cries too easily, he knows it, and is often mocked for it. But he doesn't care right now. What happened here today was wrong, he feels it in his bones.

They should have found another way.

…

The photos show a man strapped to a stretcher, being carried like a mummy from a building to an ambulance. He appears to be struggling. The man who paid for them fans the pictures out like a winning hand of cards, stretches his legs, leans back in his armchair and smiles, like a cat.

…

Meg Thatcher takes off her glasses, and rubs her eyes, before returning to her computer work. There's a great weight in her heart, which she chooses to ignore. Disruptions, she tells herself, are to be overcome. Distractions are irrelevant. Feelings are self indulgent.

She sounds like a robot, even to herself. It wasn't as though she had a choice. She had to do it.

Damn. Who does she think she's kidding?

She feels guilty.

...

And Fraser is in a small white room, strapped to a bed.

And he is sewing leaves together, bent over the Vecchio's kitchen table, in the middle of the great wild snow. And it is cold, and it is beautiful.

And he can't move his head.

And the wind cuts like a knife.

And he strains against the straps, and cannot move.

And his fingers are numb as he tries to thread the needle.

And a man is looking at him through a window made of ice.

And he cannot speak, because his tongue is made of dust. And he cannot look away, because his eyes are glittered glass. And his face is wet, he's bleeding.

He knows that he is bleeding, because that wetness can't be tears.

His father stands, and waits, and never says a word.


	4. Chapter 4

Ray was sitting in the Chang's living room, a cup of tea balanced precariously on his knee, looking at the pictures of the mother's missing son. "That's my Bao," she said tearfully, "my jewel."

"He's a handsome young man," Ray stated, politely, "you must be very proud."

"Oh, proud, very, very proud. He has never had to do anything to make me proud. He just is. He is a good boy. A mother knows." She spoke carefully, her accented voice clear, although tears continued to snake down her face.

"When did you last hear from him?"

"Like I tell your detectives already, three days. I know something is wrong when he didn't come home. He would have called me if he stay with friends. But your detectives, so rude. They tell me that I'm being a … what is it the word, a 'nag', that boys his age don't tell their mothers where they go. That I am 'clingy' because my husband died. I say to them, maybe you treat your mother with disrespect, my Bao never would. Then they are angry, and I don't hear from anyone, even though I keep phoning, until you come."

"Well, Mrs Chang, I'm really sorry, I'd hate it if someone talked to my Ma like that. When I get back to the station I'll get you a form so you can make a complaint against the detectives. But, in the meantime, tell me everything you can remember, everything that might be relevant. The last time you saw your son, what was he wearing?"

"He was wearing his grey suit and his best shoes. Like here..." She pointed to one of the photos. The young man smiled out at them, in a powder blue grey suit.

"Snazzy... was he going anywhere nice?"

"He goes to see his girlfriend I think."

"And who's she?"

"I don't know. He never told me her name. But it is obvious he loves her, a boy doesn't sing to the mirror unless he is in love. And he dances. With empty arms. And then I see the picture in his wallet."

Ray smiled, reminiscing. She had a point a point about the singing. "Is there any reason he wouldn't tell you who she was?"

"Her family did not approve, I heard him talking to his friends." She smiled, and wiped her eyes. "They think I don't understand because my husband and I talked Chinese together. Bao knows better, but he forgets when his friends come."

Mothers, Ray thought, wrily. They were all the same... their kids thought they didn't know what was going on, but they had their ways and means. He rapped his pen on his note pad, thinking.

"Do you know the friend's name?"

"No, a boy from college."

"So, do you know why the girl's family didn't approve?"

"They wanted her to marry a white boy, a rich boy."

Ray froze for a moment, caught in the beginning of a hunch. "Mrs Chang," he said, "you said that you saw your son's girlfriend in a photograph. Would you recognise her again?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I think so. She a very pretty girl."

Ray rummaged through his notes, and found that he still had a photocopy of Sally Cooper's graduation photo.

"Is this her?"

Mrs Chang put on her glasses, and carefully took the photo in her hand. Handing it back she nodded. "Yes," she affirmed. "This is her."

"Thank you Mrs Chang," Ray said, "you've been a great help."

…

Welsh received the news with mixed feelings. What had seemed like a potential kidnapping case now appeared to be a simple elopement by a young couple caught up in their first real romance. While that was good news it didn't go down as well as he'd expected with Mr Cooper. The man responded firstly by accusing everyone in the department of idiocy, then finally declared "my Sally would never have a relationship with someone like that."

"Like what, Mr Cooper?" Welsh was dangerously quiet.

"Oh, you bleeding hearts," he sneered, "I suppose you think I'm being racist. Well, maybe I am, but the fact is that different is different. She was perfectly happy with Harry, she's known him since they were both children, and our families have known each other forever. They were getting married. Why would she run off with a ..." his lips curled in a sneer, "with a Chinese?"

Welsh could think of a thousand reasons why a young woman would want to run away from this particular family, but he kept them to himself.

"Perhaps you didn't know your daughter's feelings as well as you thought?"

"I know my daughter." Cooper glared bullishly at the Lieutenant. "If she went with that boy then she's being hoodwinked. He's after her for her money, that's what it is. I want him found, and arrested."

"We can't arrest a Asian man for falling in love with a Caucasian woman," Welsh said tersely.

Cooper thumped his fist on Welsh's desk. "You can find something on him," he snarled.

"Mr Cooper," Welsh smiled, and spoke smoothly. "You may have good friends in public office, but just let me say this... if you try to push me or this station around I will have you arrested in a heart beat."

Cooper leaned forward and opened his mouth to retort, then seeing the steel in the Lieutenant's eyes changed his mind. "Right then," he said. "So that's the way it is."

The door slammed behind him, rattling the room.

Welsh scowled. "Yeah," he said, "that's the way it is."

…

Ray was troubled. "I don't know, Sir, I don't think we should stop looking for these kids... they may be together, but we can't know that until we've checked everything."

Welsh rubbed his hands together, and nodded. "Yeah, you're right," he admitted, "but let's just say, I'm hoping we'll find them at Vegas honeymooning at the chapel of love."

Ray smiled. "That would annoy the hell out of the father, wouldn't it?"

Welsh laughed. "Yeah, yeah it would. But even so, leave no stone unturned."

"Yes, Sir."

"How's your friend?"

If Welsh had asked this yesterday then Ray would have bitten his head off. As it was the question caught him off guard. He blinked, and looked at his feet.

"If there's anything I can do," Welsh said. "I know he's not exactly employed by us, but still... he's one of the team."

"Thank you, Sir." Ray turned his back, shuffling papers, and Welsh understood the symbolic flight gesture.

"Okay," he raised his voice, and called around the room. "We still have to try and find these love birds, so nobody slack off. Understood?"

Ray let out a shaky breath, and made himself look busy. When he next looked up Welsh was in his office. Thank God, he thought, and closed his eyes.

This thing with Benny, this case... Mrs Chang and her slow tears...

Ray was having a very bad day.

…

Sally emerges from a grey space between sleep and despair, and hears tapping in the pipes. She blinks. It sounds familiar. She shuffles on her bottom to the radiator, and listens. There it is again...

"Oh!" her mouth flies open. She utters the first words she has done in days. "Bao," she calls, then bites her tongue. She taps back, the steps of their dancing. She remembers them floating across the ballroom floor, his arm on her back, feet nimbling to the music. That had been their first dance, their first lover's code.

He taps again, and she leans her head against the radiator, realising who the man had been whom she had heard cry out. She wishes she knew Morse code.

She taps the dance instead, a three four beat. She wants to be able to tell him that she loves him.

Bao hears the taps, and knows.

…

Early afternoon, and the endless shift was over. Ray was slouched on the sofa, a wet towel over his head. All day he had been fighting a caffeine headache and it seemed to be winning. He was busy trying not to think when the phone rang. He fumbled his hand out for it blindly.

"Yeah," he groaned. "Who is this?"

"Ray Vecchio?"

"Speaking."

"Next of kin for Benton Fraser?"

"Yes!" he jerked upright, heart racing, headache forgotten. The hospital had told him that he couldn't see Fraser for at least another three days.

"What relation are you to the patient?"

"I'm his friend, goddamit, what's going on?"

The woman's voice on the other side of the phone took on a chilly tone.

"Mr Fraser's doctor feels that it would be beneficial to see you, if you have the time."

"Yes, yes... what, he wants to see me now? I'll be right there. Is Benny all right?"

Ray's concern radiated down the phone, and the nurse thawed a little.

"There seems to be some improvement, yes..."

"Oh, God, thank God. Tell the doctor I'll be right there."

…

His mouth was dry. He tried to swallow. A strange little noise... his throat felt full of sand.

Thirsty. That was the word for it. Not just thirst, a rage for water.

Where was he?

He managed to open his eyes, and at first saw nothing but white. Every blink scraped. "Ah... ah... aouwh," he said. He hurt. With a lurch he sat up.

The white was off white. The Inuit had a word for it. Dirty. He was in a cell. Was he under arrest?

He looked at his wrists. Saw the bruises, felt their match on his ankles.

He had been restrained.

A bed. Loose straps.

Ah.

He remembers.

Sitting on the bed in the white room he stares at the wall.

"Oh..." His breath is too loud. "Oh, he whispers. "Oh dear."

Shame rushes him, swallows him whole. He leans forward, like a man at church, shaking at his pew, and covers his face. Oh God, what did I do?

And he remembers everything. Without mercy. Every last damned thing.

...

Doctor Peterson was an elderly man with a cut glass English accent, and in his anxious state Ray found it hard, at first to understand him. He tried to convince himself that it was the accent that was throwing him.

It was not the accent.

"I'm sorry," the doctor paused, and smiled gently. "You're probably finding it difficult to take this in."

Ray had bitten the inside of his cheek so hard that it bled. "Yeah... yeah, you could say that," he muttered.

"Do you need a moment?"

"Could I... could I have a coffee?" he asked, knowing as he did so that he was putting off hearing the truth, and that it would just make the headache even more murderous.

"Certainly." Doctor Peterson leaned towards the door, and called through. "Hannah, would you be so good as to get two coffees, please? Thank you."

The coffees arrived, and Ray glanced at Hannah, the nurse he had offended on the telephone earlier. She was heavy set, with swollen ankles. She looked tired. "Thank you kindly," Ray heard himself say, and looked wretchedly at his hands.

The doctor's voice floated back into his awareness, and the second time he knew that he was hearing it right.

"Your friend has suffered an acute psychotic break. It is early days, but his symptoms are congruent with a diagnoses of schizophrenia. There is the possibility of an affective disorder, but that is less than clear at this juncture."

"Affective disorder?"

"Psychotic depression, or perhaps bipolar disorder."

Ray clasped his hands around the coffee to stop them from shaking.

"Oh." He gulped. The silence stretched out until he could have plucked it like a harp. This wasn't going away. "So... so what does that mean?"

"Well, it means that your friend's life is going to change considerably. I see from his notes that he is in law enforcement. He will probably be invalided out, receive a disability pension. If it is any comfort I understand the Canadians are very generous to their civil servants. He won't be destitute."

Ray took a gulp of bitter coffee, and put the mug back down, still shaking. "Yes," he repeated, "but what does that mean?" His voice was a little too strident, and he paused, taking it down a notch. "I mean... will someone need to look after him?"

"With proper medication there is a good chance of his managing his condition. There is, however, no cure for schizophrenia."

"Oh hell," Ray twisted in his seat, wishing he could just run away. "Oh hell, Benny..."

The doctor waited till the patient's friend had composed himself, then cleared his throat. "There is some room for hope though."

"Yeah?"

"He has made a rapid improvement in a very short space of time. It could be a response to the medication, and if so then it would indicate that he has a... a reasonable chance of a normal life afterwards."

"But he'll not be a Mounty."

"It would seem unlikely."

"You know, you talk like him?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're both very polite. And he never just says 'yes' or 'no' either. It's always, 'not to the best of my knowledge Ray,' or 'it would seem unlikely.'" Ray looked the doctor straight in the eyes. It was important for him that this man know what Fraser was like. That he wasn't just some cop who'd got out of bed one Tuesday morning and cracked up. "What you saw when he came in, that wasn't him. You've been good to him, I know that, and I'm grateful, but I just want to say, you don't know him." Ray blinked, his eyes suddenly wet. "He's the best friend I ever had," he said quietly. "I just wanted you to know."

...

"Hello, Benny."

"Hello, Ray."

"How you doing, buddy?"

Fraser looked away.

"Listen, it will be okay... I've been talking to the doc. He says you're doing great, and you'll feel better not being in this dump anyway, so you're getting sprung." Ray swallowed. He'd argued hard for Fraser to be released early, and only now was he beginning to wonder if the doctor's faith in him was misplaced. "You and Dief come and stay with me for a while, okay? You won't miss that apartment of yours, and when Ma gets back there'll be plenty to eat."

"That won't be necessary, Ray."

"Sure it's necessary. You don't want to stay in here with all the crazy people, do you?" Ouch, Ray thought, wincing at his tactlessness.

Fraser pulled a face, and tried to look at his friend. He couldn't hold his gaze. It hurt.

"Ray... I'm sorry."

"It's okay, we all have bad days."

"Don't... please don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't humour me."

"Awh Benny," Ray held his friend's hands, grasped hard when Fraser tried to pull away. He wasn't about to let him go. "I'm sorry too. But please? You don't have to be here. You have a home to come to."

Fraser put his head on the table to hide his tears.


	5. Chapter 5

The door clangs open, and Sally jerks back to full awareness.

"Here, you should eat," the white woman says, and puts two bowls down. One a mixture of rice and vegetables, the other full of water. The woman leans back against the door, and folds her arms, looking bored. "I'm supposed to wait till you've finished, you don't want to make him angry."

Sally most definitely does not want to make him angry, but she also doesn't want to have to eat her food like a dog in front of her guard. The woman rolls her eyes, and lights a cigarette. Sally looks at the water.

She is so thirsty.

And who is she kidding? She can't bring herself to care any more. She wriggles herself to a kneeling position, and bends her head to the water bowl. Her wrists are tied behind her, and weakly she struggles to find the right balance. By the time she finishes the water she is dizzy, trying not to hiccup.

"Now eat," the woman says, nudging the other bowl with her foot.

Sally shakes her head. She feels sick, and eating like this would be too much of a challenge anyway.

"Your choice." The woman flicks her cigarette to the floor, grinds it out beneath her foot. Sally flinches when the woman bends down to get the bowls... her proximity, the nicotine smell of her... it's too much. She gags. The woman gives her a filthy look, and kicks, a well directed thrust to her abdomen. Sally swallows down her gorge. She refuses to lose what precious liquid she has left in her. She absolutely will not let them kill her. She will not die.

By the time her eyes stop running the woman has left the room. Sally sits as the silence returns, shaking a little, and stares at the cigarette stub, with it's hideous lipstick smudge. She realises that she never did like that shade of pink.

Bao, she thought, what are they doing to Bao?

…

Meg Thatcher was finding it hard to concentrate. It must be the "incident" with Fraser, but for the last few days she was feeling... what? It was hard to put it into words. That feeling you get when someone runs their nails down a blackboard. Or as though she had itching powder inside her skull.

If Turnbull stuck his head through the door one more time requesting one more pointless clarification to a task a trained monkey could do then there was a strong chance that she would throw something at him.

The door opened, and she glared up, fiercely. "What?"

Turnbull smiled, that half craven kiss ass look he had off to perfection. "I thought you might like some coffee, Sir?"

Yeah, like she wasn't tense enough already. Let's throw caffeine at the problem.

But she hadn't slept, so she shrugged. "Fine. And Turnbull?"

"Yes Sir?"

"When you're done, close the door."

…

It wasn't going to be as bad as he thought, Ray told himself. His friend was tired, he could tell that much, and as they left the hospital he had been none too steady on his pins, but he'd smiled at some of Ray's jokes, even made one of his own. When they stopped for hot dogs Diefenbaker started whining, and Benny rewarded him with most of his meat. "You do understand that this is cannibalism, Dief," he pointed out, and Ray was so delighted to hear his friend joke, even a corny joke, that he completely lost it. He laughed so hard that he choked on his hot dog. He was still chuckling as they pulled up outside his house.

Yeah, maybe it would be okay.

Ray walked round the car, and reached out a hand. Benny staggered a little bit on the way up, and blinked. That must be the medication, Ray told himself. The doctor had warned him that Fraser would be woozy, that it might take some time for his body to adapt to the pharmaceuticals while the professionals worked out his "optimal dose". "He'll be feeling over medicated. That's quite normal at first. He'll get used to it."

Ray didn't like to think of Fraser getting used to what were, after all, pretty hard drugs. But since Fraser seemed to be more normal he could only assume the meds were working. Didn't mean he had to be pleased about it though.

"Come on, buddy," Ray put his hand on his friend's back to steady him, and walked him up the steps to the house. "Let's get you inside."

…

Ray seemed to be spending a lot of time on the phone.

Of course it was to be expected that the family would call ... Ma Vecchio, the two Vecchio sisters, particularly Francesca, a cousin or two, Tony, even Ray's brother, who Fraser had never met.

"How's he doing?" And it was always... "yeah, we're doing all right, don't worry about it... hope you're having a good time..."

It felt somehow more intrusive when Elaine called, and though Ray pretended she was only calling about work he took the phone into the hall and talked behind his hand so that Fraser wouldn't hear.

He knew Ray was trying to spare him embarrassment, and was glossing over all the more humiliating features. It was not that he wasn't grateful... he was. Deeply grateful. But he found, to his shame, that he resented his friend for being so... so kind. So understanding. Fraser knew that he was broken. And if this thing was true, if he really was... broken, then he would never ever be able to return Ray's kindness. He had become a tumescence, an unnamed, untamed something, a thing that could only ever be a burden.

Why did Ray have to be so good about it?

"So Fraser, what's it to be for dinner tonight, I'm cooking," Ray said, as with perfect discretion he handed him a little plastic cup with the medication in it. He turned his back casually, allowing his friend privacy, as though swallowing the tablets down were some biological embarrassment, like urinating, that people didn't do in public.

"Thank you kindly," Fraser replied, and took a decision. If he was mad, then he would be mad, not some lumbering creature in a medicated twilight zone. If he was bad enough even Ray would see it. He wouldn't have to be so self sacrificial. Then he would have to let him go. Fraser tucked the tablets high up, between his cheek and his gum, and swallowed only water. The tablets came out later, when Ray was grinding roast almonds in a pestle and mortar, with his back to the kitchen door.

And now that he'd made a decision Fraser finally relaxed. It was odd, how giving up afforded him such relief.

Ray turned with a flourish from the oven, smiling, and served up Sicilian pesto with long fat wobbles of noodly pasta. There was more. Crisp salad, fresh olives, and garlicky oven baked eggplant took their place upon the table, and a bowl of freshly grated cheese.

"Eat, eat," Ray said, grinning, imitating Ma Vecchio, "Come on Benito, eat already."

Fraser laughed. "Thank you kindly Raimondo."

Ray pushed a steaming plate towards him, and Fraser found that he could eat.

…

It seemed like the case was going nowhere, and Welsh would have been ready to write it off if it hadn't been for the boy's mother. She arrived early the following morning to make a formal complaint about the way his detectives had treated her.

"What's Vecchio done now?"

"No, not your Detective Vecchio, he very nice to me, nice man. The other two, the young ones, Rushton and Brown."

"Ah," Welsh sighed. At least it wasn't Huey and Louie this time. "I'm sorry Mrs Chang, we borrowed them from another station, we've had a very heavy case load lately. What did they do?"

"They tell me that my son is not missing, he just does not want to be found, and that I am being … what did they say... 'one of those mothers' and not letting my son to breath. That I am a nag."

"Well, I'm sorry you feel they didn't take it seriously, and they certainly shouldn't have talked to you like that." Welsh steeled himself to make the unpleasant suggestion. "However, there does seem to be some evidence that he has run off with his girlfriend... they both disappeared at the same time."

Mrs Chang gave him that look that only an angry mother can give. Her English deteriorating under the weight of her anger, she laid into him. "You not know my son, he loves his girl, but me also he loves, he not do anything to frighten me. If he go with this girl he let me know. He let me know."

Welsh shifted uncomfortably under her chilly glare. She reminded him of his own mother, completely convinced of her son's integrity. He thought of all the times that he'd let his mother down, forgetting how often he had made her proud. It was suddenly important to him that this woman was not hurt.

"Okay," Welsh said, "I've read the case reports, but just to be absolutely sure that we've covered all the angles I want you to tell me everything you can about your son. Any little clue could be a help."

And Mrs Chang leaned forward in her chair, gazing over the silver rim of her glasses, and fixed him in her sights.

By the time she had finished Welsh was as sure as she was that her son, her "Bao," her treasure, would not have run away leaving no word. Dammit, he thought, we still have a case.

So he called every available officer and started again from scratch.

…

Bao is finally thinking clearly for the first time in... how long? He can't be sure, but it's been days. They took him suddenly, grabbing him from behind, and he knows that he fought back, and he knows that he got hurt. It's only now that he's really coming back to himself.

He remembers them talking about Sally, and he remembers thinking it was some kind of a trick. But that night when in dizzy boredom he played the radiator like a drum she tapped back. Their dance. Their waltz. They have her somewhere. Sally is here.

But his captors haven't said a word to him, he has no idea what they want. Is it her family, he wonders. She was always very secretive about them, told him that they "wouldn't approve." Surely they couldn't be as disapproving as all that?

He thinks of their meeting places, their seat in the park, their little café off campus which wasn't trendy, where all the grandmothers went, driving away students like leaves on a gusty day. He thinks of holding her hands across the table, sharing food from each other's plates. He thinks of going to the library, tucking notes into the back of fat volumes about Chinese architecture that nobody would ever read, of finding her own notes, folding them smooth and tracing his finger over her handwriting.

He shouldn't have been secret about it. If it had been his choice he would have told the world. It was bursting out of him. He vibrated with the size of it as he was walking down the road. The whole world must know that he's in love.

But it was not his choice. She couldn't help her family. Now he wishes he had told someone other than Frank. Frank would keep a secret to the grave. But as Bao sits with his eyes shut and her face behind his lids he feels guilty.

He wishes that he'd been more honest with his mother.

…

The next morning Fraser seemed altogether brighter, and offered to do the dishes. "You know that's a mountain out there," Ray said, then tongue in cheek adds, "no point doing it today if we can put it off till Ma gets home. You know she loves to clean."

"That won't be necessary, Ray, I'm sure your mother has better things to do when she gets back."

Ray gave his friend a wry grin. He couldn't figure out if he was being overly literal as a joke, or if he really believed Ray would leave the dishes in the sink for his Ma.

"Come on Frase, leave them for now. We'll do them after we take Diefenbaker for his walk."

Fraser looked down at Diefenbaker, who cocked his head quizzically and whined.

"Really, Diefenbaker, you don't have to take that tone with me," Fraser said mildly. "I wasn't going to forget about you." Dief stood, tongue hanging out, and yipped. "No, really, I was just going to suggest to Ray that we take you for your walk." Dief's tail swung madly, like a big duster, bashing into things. Fraser looked at Ray. "Diefenbaker would like very much to go for a walk."

"Okay, Benny boy!" Ray couldn't keep himself from smiling. Fraser conversing solemnly with his wolf, and playing the ultimate straight man, that was the kind of crazy Ray could handle. Those meds must really be working, Benny seemed almost back to normal.

…

After the walk Fraser managed to get his own way, and stood washing dishes by himself. Ray had insisted that he would come in to help any minute now, but when Fraser looked through he saw, with a pang of guilt, that his friend had fallen asleep on the sofa. He looked worn out. Now that he was asleep Fraser could see clearly the toll of the the past few days. His skin had taken on an unhealthy pallor, and he looked... well, he simply looked ill.

Fraser shook his head at himself, and returned to the dishes, making an effort not to clatter.

"Hello, Son."

Fraser jumped, and clutched the damp dishcloth to his chest.

"Don't do that Dad, I nearly broke a plate."

"Do you want to talk to me now?"

Fraser glanced at his father, then away, pained. Carefully he continued to stack plates. He remembered his last words to his father, and was ashamed.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he said. "I don't know why I said that."

"It's all right, Son. You weren't well."

"Remember once I asked you, 'does insanity run in our family'?"

"Yes, Son?"

"Did you ever..." Fraser pulled out the plug and watched the water as it drained away. "Did you ever know that I was... well, did I ever show any signs of... being..." Dear Lord, this was proving impossible to say. Finally he managed to spit it out. "Did you know I was going to go mad?"

"No, Son. I never for a moment worried about you that way. You're an embarrassingly sane man."

Fraser smiled at his father thankfully, then rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry Dad... I just realised, I'm seeking reassurance that I'm not a schizophrenic from one of my most persistent hallucinations. I should have realised when you first popped up that something wasn't right."

"Son, I'm not in your head. Well, perhaps I am, but that doesn't mean that I'm not real."

Fraser leaned against the counter, arms folded across his checked shirt, and pondered this. When he was a child the Inuit had welcomed him, taught him that the world was a strange place. He knew that a man could turn into a raven, a caribou into a man. More in heaven and earth...

He nodded, and smiled at his father. "Understood. Appearances can be deceptive."

"So, you're feeling better, Son?"

"Actually, yes. Yes I am." He looked puzzled. "Which is odd really."

"What's odd?"

"I started to feel better when I stopped taking the medication."

"Why is that odd?"

"Well, the doctor told me that I'd have to be on anti psychotics for the rest of my life to prevent relapse."

"Really?" the ghost snorted, derisively. "What does he know? And I suppose he told you there was no cure?"

"As it happens yes. He did say something to that effect."

"I'm sure that he's a very nice man, very well meaning, but I wouldn't take him too seriously son. I'm just glad that you've not been walking so deep into the borderlands."

"What do you mean?"

"I was worried about you, Son. You got in far too deep. I shouldn't have been able to taste that sandwich."

"It wasn't that bad, surely?"

"What I mean is, people can walk between worlds, but you should always remember which one is your home. For now your home is here."

"Chicago?"

"That too." The old man smiled.

His heart strangely lighter, his son smiled back.


	6. Chapter 6

The phone rang, and Ray fumbled out blindly. "What," he groaned, then sat up abruptly.

"Turnbull?" For a confused moment he thought he'd lived this moment before, and almost asked how Fraser was.

"Detective Vecchio," the man sounded even more flustered than usual. "I think you'd better get over here... there's a..." he stuttered, "there's an urgent situation."

This was sounding more and more like the day Fraser lost it. "Why do you need me?" Dammit, even the blasted headache had come back. "What's going on?"

"Uhm... it's difficult to explain. You'll have to see for yourself."

"Alright," Ray sighed, dragging his hand over his face, as though washing it. Wake up man, he thought. "I'm coming."

"Ray?" Fraser was standing at the kitchen door, a look of concern on his face. "Is there anything wrong?"

"I don't know. That was Turnbull. He was probably blithering about nothing, but I'd better go see."

Fraser nodded. "I should go with you."

Ray almost told him not to, then realised that to do so would make Fraser feel like an invalid. Besides, it might be good for him to go back after all the indignities of the last few days. The longer he left it the more hardened the embarrassment would become. Even if the doctor was right, and Fraser never did return to work at the Consulate it would still be good to face it. Besides, he wasn't sure he should leave him alone just yet.

"Yeah, yeah, come along. I'll need someone to save me from Turnbull anyway."

...

"Oh, Constable Fraser..." Turnbull smiled, then frowned, then couldn't decide where to look. The man looked good. Turnbull blushed. Even in scruffs the man looked good. "I see you're back to normal," he said, and blushed harder. "I'm sorry... I don't mean to imply that you weren't normal, that is to say..." he closed his eyes for a moment, mortified. "I mean to say, I'm glad you're better."

"Thank you kindly," Fraser smiled, "I know what you mean."

"So, what's so important that you drag us all the way down here?"

"Well," Turnbull leaned in close to Ray, and whispered "it's Inspector Thatcher. She's been acting a little strangely..."

"Really? A Canadian acting strangely?" Ray tried to move out of Turnbull's proximity, but the man was nothing if not incredibly intrusive, and stepped back into Ray's bubble. "Look, could you stop that," he said, "I'm not your date." Turnbull blinked, looked even more embarrassed, and gave Ray some space. For a moment the detective almost felt sorry for him.

"I'm sorry, I just mean to say..." Turnbull glanced at Fraser, then back at Ray. "She really isn't herself. It's as though she's..." he paused, then raised a finger to his temple, and twisted.

"What do you mean?" Ray and Fraser spoke at the same time, looking at each other.

"She's been taping wrapping paper to the windows," Turnbull confided, "and stuffing any cracks with tissue paper."

Fraser was rubbing his eyebrow thoughtfully.

"You realise it's very unlikely that two people working in the same building would develop such unique symptoms by accident ," he said. "I realise that I might not be the best judge, but is there a possibility that we're being somehow sabotaged?"

"What," Ray said incredulously, "someone's sabotaging the Consulate? Why?"

"It could be espionage," Turnbull said, "or the Americans seeking revenge for the war of 1812."

"It would appear unlikely," Fraser answered gravely, "most Americans have never heard of the war of 1812."

"Look, earth to Mounties, enough with the history lesson. We need to get a forensic team in here, and see if someone's been tampering with anything... the water maybe."

Turnbull put his hand to his mouth, and swallowed. "I'm next, aren't I? I'm the next on the hit list, I just know it... I can feel myself going as we speak..."

"Turnbull," Ray assured him, "nobody would even notice if you went mad." Then, taking pity on the man, he patted him clumsily on the shoulder, regretting it instantly. "And besides, now that we know something is up we can get someone to check you out. Don't worry."

"Thank you. Uhm... I think we should approach Inspector Thatcher carefully."

A crash came from Thatcher's office, and the three men looked at the door apprehensively. She was singing in French. Fraser cringed. Her accent was way off.

Turnbull tried to put off the moment, and clarified his statement. "I think we should approach Inspector Thatcher carefully... in a little while, when she's stopped singing." Brightly he suggested, "perhaps while we're waiting you would like some tea?"

"Is that wise," Fraser asked. "After all, as Ray has already pointed out, someone may have contaminated the drinking water."

Turnbull went white as a sheet. "I've been drinking the water."

"I said don't worry about it." Ray tried to sound as brisk and efficient as possible, hoping to calm the man before he became completely hysterical. "I'll phone it in to the station, get forensics out here."

There was another crash, and a cry that sounded to Ray like "vatoo tonfooey".

"Oh my," Turnbull wrung his hands.

"I'm sure she didn't mean that," Fraser tried to reassure him.

"Why... what did she say?" Ray was confused.

The Canadians looked at each other, shuffled their feet and said nothing. After an embarrassed silence Fraser squared his jaw, and straightened. He might not be wearing the uniform, but he looked every inch the Mountie.

"Gentlemen, shall we?"

Ray nodded, and again feeling like he was stuck as an extra in Groundhog's Day pushed open an office door and stepped through.

...

Meg had arranged the office to her satisfaction, pushing all the furniture to the far wall to clear some space, and covering the windows so that the Americans couldn't look in. She had chewed up paper to stuff the cracks, and having finished with that assignment was now sitting cross legged on the floor trying to find the right head on the screwdriver with which to take the telephone apart.

"Damned thing," she muttered, then swore obscenely in French.

"Inspector," came a voice from behind the door. "We're coming in."

She looked up. "Constable Fraser," she said, in clipped tones. "You're out of uniform."

"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

"No excuses, Constable." She glared at the figure standing next to him. "Why have you brought an American into the consulate? You do know that we're at war don't you?"

"No, Sir, I was not aware of that fact."

"I see. Has nobody been getting the memos?"

"It would appear not, Sir."

"They've probably been intercepted," she muttered darkly.

"I can vouch for Detective Vecchio," Fraser said. "He bears no malice toward Canada."

The American grumbled under his breath and Meg squinted, wishing that she hadn't trodden on her glasses while shifting the desk. "Well," she said dubiously, "if you trust him I suppose I can stretch a point."

"Thank you Sir. May I ask what you are doing?"

"Ah yes, Constable, I'm tracking down surveillance devices. Do you think you could help me with the telephone?"

"Certainly, Sir," Fraser sat down opposite her, and nimbly fixed on the correct head to the screw driver. "Do you want me to take it apart?"

"That is correct, Constable." At last, someone else was taking the situation seriously.

Fraser glanced across at his American friend, and gestured with his eyes. "What's that, Constable?" She narrowed her gaze suspiciously.

"Nothing, Sir. Let me help you with this."

And she was engrossed in the inner organs of the telephone when the men in white coats came to take her away.

...

"This is unacceptable."

Simmons is standing in front of his employer, looking at his feet, while behind the desk the man is getting angrier and angrier.

"You told me that you could handle this without complications."

"I'm sorry, Sir. I don't know how it happened, I thought the method of delivery was fool proof."

"Fool proof? He's getting better, and his boss is in the hospital. Don't you think that will tip the cops off that there's something going on?"

"Perhaps... they might think it's a coincidence."

"I'm not interested in excuses. I told you that I wanted his life to fall apart, and so far he seems to be holding up remarkably well."

"Don't worry, Sir, I will try to find a more reliable method of delivery. His current recovery is a temporary glitch."

"See to it then."

Simmons bobs his head, and steps out of his boss's presence. His mouth is dry. He's just realised that he can't really think of another method of delivery. The target is notorious for tasting and smelling out all sorts of strange things. If he tries to put it in his food the man will notice. If he tries to put it in the water not only will he probably sniff it out, his whole building will go down with it, and the scam will definitely be uncovered.

Simmons knows that if he doesn't think of something soon he's going to get himself killed. He walks quickly with his head down, turning possibilities over in his head, discarding them one by one. He looks up at the boss's window, and sees him staring down implacably.

Simmons feels cold dread curling in his stomach like food poisoning. He has no idea what he's going to do.

...

They finally untie Sally's wrists and ankles. At first it's excruciating, and she thinks that her hands and feet will never stop burning. She can't walk, and she's weeping with the pain when the man comes in.

She is no longer sure how many times she's seen him since she was first take. So far she has uttered not a word, head held high, for all his faults her father's daughter. She realises now that she's had some of the stuffing knocked out of her. She's tired, cold, aching. She's had no more than three bowls of water in three, maybe four days, and precious little else. She's stale with urine, in pain, light headed, and she doesn't know if she can withstand another interrogation.

"So," the man says. "I hope you've enjoyed our accommodations."

Oh for crying out loud, she thinks, he sounds like a Bond villain.

"Where's the white cat?"

It's the first time she's spoken to him, and even as she does so she knows it's a mistake. She's broken a precedent.

He raises an eyebrow at her, and starts to pace speculatively, getting closer and closer. She inches back, unable to hide her fear despite her best efforts.

"So, I will ask you again. Your father's ... how shall I put it... 'other assets,' where exactly does he keep them?"

"I don't know," she lies, "and even if I did I wouldn't tell you."

"So you would protect a criminal?"

She says nothing. She knows that he has a point. From the moment she decided not to go to the police about it she's been protecting a criminal.

"Now, really think, my dear." He smiles at her blandly. "Are you certain, absolutely certain that you have no idea where your father keeps his less legitimate fortune?"

How could he possibly know about this, she wonders. Who could have told him? Nobody even knows that she knows... nobody but...

She blanches. For days now she's been skirting round the realisation. She has only told one person about the conversation she had overheard between her father and his accountant.

Harry. How could he?

Then she remembers the look on his face when they broke up. The silent phone calls.

"Harry," she says through parched lips, and has the satisfaction of seeing the man's eyebrows shoot up, startled. "Harry did this."

The man recollects himself, and says smoothly, "it doesn't matter who did this dear. The question remains the same."

"I won't tell you anything."

"I thought as much. Ah well. What a shame. It appears that I'll have to introduce you to our guest in the next room."

Oh God, no...

The man claps his hands and calls out. The door opens, and Bao is dragged in, legs trailing, head drooping, supported between two men, who fling him to the floor once he's inside.

"I believe you two are friends. Well, I'll leave you for a while to become reacquainted. And when I return, Miss Cooper, I expect an answer."

The door slams, and Sally crawls over to her lover, puts her arms around him. He groans, and turns towards her, murmuring her name.

Oh God, oh God, she thinks, don't let this be happening, don't let this be real...

It's real. She bends towards him, and covers his face with her hair.

...

The forensics team were baffled. The head of the team, a bear like man with a red beard, sat on Turnbull's chair and spread his hands out in a gesture of bewilderment.

"There's still a lot of tests that we have to do, but quite frankly we can't think what it could be. There are plenty of people who visit here regularly, it's hard to think of anything which would affect Constable Fraser and Inspector Thatcher so violently but leave others unaffected."

"I knew it," Turnbull moaned. "I'm next."

"Will you stop whining," Ray snapped, "you spend more time here than either Thatcher or Fraser, and you're in the clear, so shut up already." He realised that he wasn't being entirely sympathetic to the man's anxiety, but what could he do? Turnbull had a God-given talent for rubbing people up the wrong way.

Turnbull bit his lip and sniffed.

"Well," the forensics guy continued, "I don't think you have anything to worry about, but we have to try and ascertain what environmental factor Inspector Thatcher and Constable Fraser may have had in common."

Astonishingly it was Turnbull who got if first.

"Dry cleaning."


	7. Chapter 7

Inspector Thatcher was mortified.

"I'm mortified," she said, then folded her arms and glared, as though daring her visitors to disagree with her.

Turnbull was looking suitably contrite, Fraser was looking mild and courteous, but that American detective was smirking. Well, she thought he was... perhaps she was still a little paranoid. The shirt he was wearing just had to be a hallucination.

"I would like to apologise to you, Detective Vecchio, for ever implying that there were hostilities between our two nations. Whatever the circumstances, it was a terrible way to behave, completely inappropriate. I have absolutely no idea why I would think a thing like that."

"It's okay," Ray said, "we have the World Series instead of border conflicts these days anyway, when you guys are up to playing us that is. Less messy that way."

"As it happens," Fraser began, "the term 'world series' is factually incorrect, given that most of the world neither participates in the games themselves, nor watches them. If people were to adopt the more accurate term 'Major Baseball League' then there wouldn't be any confusion..."

"Fraser," Ray rolled his eyes, "this isn't the time."

"No. No, I don't suppose it is."

Meg sighed. "So, forensics is back?"

"Yes, Sir," Fraser confirmed. "It would appear that our clothing was somehow imbued with a hallucinogenic compound."

"At the dry cleaners?"

"Yes Sir."

"I suppose we should be glad really," she said.

"Sir?"

"Well, at least our behaviour is explicable. We were poisoned. We're lucky that this hasn't cost us our jobs."

"Yes, Sir," Fraser nodded. "There is that."

"And Fraser?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"From now on I'll get my own dry cleaning."

…

Welsh was on fine fighting form. The dawn raid on the dry cleaner's had turned up three illegal immigrants, and one small chemical laboratory in a large closet behind the water tank. The owner of the dry cleaner's was sitting in the interview room, nervously pinning his own hands between his legs to stop himself from twitching.

"Gardino, Huey..." Welsh glares at his detectives. "I want you to do this right. No screw ups, do you understand? This guy in here," he pointed through the observation window, "this guy poisoned a cop. You get that? He poisoned Fraser. One of ours. And an Inspector in the RCMP. Two cops in fact. There is no way that someone who owns a little business in China town is doing this all by himself. For one thing, he has no motive. So I want you to find out who's behind this. You get me?"

"Yes sir." The guys look serious, no joking around this time.

"Okay. Go in there and make this count."

And the detectives did just that. He sang like a bird.

...

Bao opens his eyes again, and she's still there. Even tired as she is, lips pale and cracked, hair unkempt, smelling of sweat and ammonia, even so she's beautiful to him. He hurts, and he's floating in his pain, but she holds him, and that's a safe place to be.

…

Fraser hadn't got his uniforms back from forensics, so he was still in his scruffs and leather jacket. His hat however was declared fit for purpose, and he wore it like a Chicago cop wears his badge. He was going through Ray's case reports on the missing persons.

"So," he mused, "they disappeared four days ago, nobody's heard from them since?"

"Nobody. In fact, apart from Bao's mother there was no witness to their relationship until yesterday."

"What happened yesterday?"

"A friend of Bao's, a Frank Greene, finally came forward, saying that Sally and Bao were in a relationship, but that he's been sworn to secrecy because Sally was afraid of her family."

"And does anyone think that the family is behind it?"

"No, they don't seem to have a motive."

Fraser nodded. "Any clues?"

"Only one. We can't make sense of it, it might not even be anything to do with the case."

Fraser looked up, patiently. "What is it, Ray?"

"Someone left her a note. 'Meet me at four nine one.'"

"Might that be 'four ninety one?'"

"What difference does it make?"

Fraser cocked his head to one side, quizzically. "Well, if it's four ninety one, then perhaps we should go to the library."

"For what?" Ray's irritation was born of tiredness more than anything. "We've got analysts crunching numbers as we speak. You're not going to find the answer at the library."

"On the contrary, you can usually find any answer you need at the library."

"Jeez, Benny... I get it, you like libraries..."

"Oh dear." He scratched his brow in a puzzled fashion. "I don't seem to be explaining myself very well. Four ninety one is a Dewey Decimal classification. Libraries follow a system, a pattern. The number four ninety one would refer to books pertaining to China."

Benny and his patterns. "You're saying that the message means 'meet me by the Chinese book shelves?'"

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean."

"Way to go, Benny!" Ray clapped him on the shoulder, tiredness temporarily forgotten. "Now we're getting somewhere."

…

Yes, it appeared that his friend was definitely back to normal. Crouched at the Chinese section of the library, next to the stacks, sniffing the floor.

"Awh for the love of... Benny, don't lick the ground... what is that?"

Benny sat back on his haunches, looking puzzled. "It's a coincidence."

"A coincidence? You've just been sniffing a coincidence? What's that smell like Fraser, strawberries?"

"Soap," Benny looked really puzzled now. "You know, I think there might be a connection between the two cases."

"Yeah, I know, the kids are an item."

"No, that's one case. I mean, there might be a connection between Inspector Thatcher and I being poisoned, and this kidnapping case."

"What makes you think..." suddenly Ray laughed. "Oh, I get it. It's the soap. Laundry room soap, yes?"

"That's correct, Ray, well done."

"Well, you don't have to sound so surprised about it. I'm a cop too you know."

"Yes, I know that, Ray."

"Glad to hear it."

"My pleasure."

Ray gave a retrained sigh. He didn't know anyone else who would sniff and lick the floor, then casually and courteously insult your intelligence without even realising he'd done it.

Yeah, definitely business as usual.

Benny was still in his squat, looking thoughtfully into the distance. "There aren't many footprints here, as you can see. The cleaners don't even seem to get here very often, which is fortunate. See here?"

Ray sank to his own heels and examined the floor. "Yeah, I see that." He frowned recollecting. "Her shoe size is six point five, and she was wearing slight heels when she vanished. These look like her footmarks."

"Yes, there are fainter traces all around this area," Benny continued, "but these appear to be the most recent. You can see two sets of male footprints here..."

"Bao wears size ten."

"I see, so these would be his then. And these ones here, size eight, quite fresh, they belong to someone else... no treads on them, smooth soled, and slightly pointed, which is unusual for a man's shoe unless he's wearing dress shoes. People don't wear those kinds of shoes unless they are in smart attire, so we're looking for a man in a suit."

Ray nodded. "That makes sense."

"And if his feet are size eight or thereabout, then his height should be..." Fraser looked at the ceiling as though for guidance, computing under his breath. "His height should be between one hundred and fifty eight and one hundred and seventy one centimetres."

"So between five foot two and five foot foot seven. That's not much help Benny."

"We can make an educated guess that he is somewhere between those two points. He's wealthy, assuming that's always been the case he was probably well nourished as a child, so he'd be nearer the top end than the bottom. Though of course the assumption may be wrong. Let's say we're looking for a man of five foot five to five foot seven."

"In a suit, with dress shoes that taste like a Chinese laundry."

"Yes..." Benny slapped his head all of a sudden, causing Ray to jump. "Stupid, we're stupid."

"What?"

"Charlie Wong, he's out."

Ray groaned. Benny was right... They had arrested Wong and his crew a while back on serious charges of kidnap, extortion, blackmail and attempted murder. However, the FBI in their zealousness to bring the guy in bungled their side of the investigation, and destroyed most of the evidence by setting fire to, of all things, a firework factory. The ballistics report, which should have proved that Wong and his crew were shooting at police officers, was irredeemably compromised by the blaze, and the ricocheting rockets and sparklers which ensued. It had been a great spectacle at the time, but it had consequences. To everybody's disgust and the FBI's shame Wong got out on licence after little over a year, a reward for his "good behaviour". He had been lying low since then, seeming to live by the book. But leopards and their spots don't change, Ray thought, grimly.

"It might explain the Chinese connection, the soap on the shoes... and if there is a connection to the laundry then it might even tie in with the poisoning case. He's certainly got motive against you... you did encourage people to stand up to him, and he lost a lot of face over that. If there's one thing a gangster needs it's face. You showed people they could stand up to him and win."

Fraser stood up and put his hands behind his back, staring at the shelves.

"Do you see it Ray?"

"What?" Ray stood again, feeling his knees crack. "Oh, yeah, that." He did see it. The shelves were covered with dust, but in front of one thick, grey volume that nobody would read if you paid them, there was nothing. The bald patch on the shelf was almost gleaming amongst it's shabby surrounds, and there were several satisfying smudges. "You know, Frase, we might have prints. I bet Wong wouldn't have expected anyone to track this down."

Fraser nodded. "And perhaps we'll find the prints of our kidnap victims."

Ray felt his shoulders droop. The hope that the kids had just eloped had pretty much vanished by now. Something nasty was afoot.

Oblivious to his partner's distress Fraser continued. "This book looks like it's been removed recently, and it's the only one."

"Chinese architecture." Ray snorted. "Can't say that surprises me."

"Actually, it's a fascinating study, but this isn't the time."

Opening the thick volume Fraser started flicking through the pages, with an increasingly disappointed look. "I can't see anything..."

"You're not reading it that fast?"

"No, no, not reading, just scanning for anything that jumps out." As he shut the book with a disappointed thump a little piece of paper fluttered to the ground. "Oh," he said, raising his eyebrows. "I didn't think to look in the spine."

"You're still off your game." Even off his game Benny was doing great, but he normally wouldn't have overlooked the spine of the book. "Just as well this thing 'jumped out' at you." Ray plucked the paper from the floor, using a tissue to avoid adding his own prints to it. Looking at it he laughed. "Great, this one's for you."

Fraser peered over Ray's shoulder. It was in Chinese.

"So," Ray queried, "he left a note for someone?"

"Actually, no, she left a note for Bao. The characters are sloppy, and the language is fairly simple. She was taking Chinese as one of her options, wasn't she?"

"Yeah, first semester."

"Oh, well then." Fraser looked at the paper with new approval. "She's not doing so badly for a beginner."

"Yeah yeah, what does it say Fraser?"

"It's a love letter."

"Sweet. What does it say?"

"Actually, it's less of a love letter, and more of a suggestion." Fraser blushed. "I think she must have had some extra curricular language lessons."

Ray laughed. "What, you know dirty words in Chinese? I thought your Grandmother taught you."

"She did indeed, Ray, she was very keen that I have a fully rounded education. But you are quite correct, she didn't teach me this kind of language. I do read, you know, Ray."

"What kind of books you been reading in Chinese then?"

Fraser gave him a pointed look and Ray took mercy and stopped teasing him.

"Hmm," Benny pondered. "So to sum up, we have a note in Chinese, written by an English speaker. We have possible finger prints. The most recent footprints are those of a third man, possibly Wong, and of Sally Cooper. Perhaps he lured her here. We have no direct evidence that the other man was Mr Wong, not until forensics get here, and perhaps not even then. And since we don't want to tip him off we need to proceed cautiously."

"Yeah, let's do that, cautious is good. We don't want him to get off again."

"Well, we may be able to pick up the tracks outside. It hasn't rained since the disappearance." Fraser stopped abruptly, looking uncomfortable. "Well, I assume it hasn't rained. I'm not entirely sure what the weather was doing every night this week..." It was an odd feeling for him to have had even a few days that were so much inside that he hadn't seen the sky. "But the city feels dry, like it's been waiting for rain, am I right?"

"Yeah," Ray reassured him, feeling bad for his friend. "It's not rained for over a week."

Fraser nodded, and straightened his hat. Ray grinned. "Ride em, cowboy. We've got a bad guy to catch."

…

Sally is standing, staring at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone. Not wanting to look at the unconscious form of Bao. Not unconscious, she tells herself, he's sleeping. She doesn't believe herself. She has no choice.

"I'll tell you," she says. "Just don't hurt him any more."

She knows that she's throwing away her one advantage, but this isn't her risk. Bao is the one they've been really hurting. She knows that most likely once she's given the information they will both be killed, but there's a chance that she can think of something. If she doesn't say something they'll kill Bao for definite.

Mr Wong smiles, satisfied. "Good. I knew you would see reason."

"What assurances can you give me?"

"Assurances?"

"That you'll let Bao go."

"You have only my word."

"That's not good enough."

"It's all you're getting."

She lifts her eyes, and stares, blue hatred burning straight at him.

"All right then," she snarls, and begins her list of off shore accounts, and the names that they are registered under. Her father had used the names of the pets to open the accounts in. They were easy, too easy to remember. The names roll off her tongue, and she doesn't even feel the sting of being a betrayer. She just wants it over, so that she can be with Bao, whatever their final union entails... liberation or death.

She stands and betrays her father's darkest secrets, and feels nothing at all.


	8. Chapter 8

They had to walk around the library in ever expanding concentric circles for nearly half an hour before they found the shoe prints again.

"Here," Fraser pointed at the near invisible mark of the tip of a shoe. Triangular, the barest smudge. "That's the dress shoe."

"What's this?" Ray wasn't as confident as Fraser, though he had been learning. Inuit tracking skills turned out to be strangely transferable to an urban environment. They should teach it at the academy... "It looks like Sally's shoes?"

Fraser nodded, then dropped to his knees.

"You realise if your doctor came along and saw you doing this he'd be pretty sure that you weren't cured?"

"I imagine that's correct, Ray." He was moving along on all fours sniffing.

"Please don't lick, please don't lick..."

On the other side of the road a young couple pushing a pram glanced over, then hurried on.

"You know, Benny, sometimes I think you're doing this deliberately just to humiliate me... first time I ever saw you do your sniff and lick routine you were putting it on to trick someone."

"Was I, Ray?"

"Yes, you were. So what I want to know is this... am I the butt of some Canadian joke?"

"No, Ray, no you're not."

"Alright, so what have you found out?"

"Not much. They struggled, she must have fought hard because the drops of blood there..." he pointed, "appear to have splashed from this point," he indicated again, "which is where he was standing."

"Good for her."

"Yes. Unfortunately for her, someone came along to assist her assailant here, a fat man apparently, and Sally disappears there, where we have tyre tracks. From their girth the tyres probably belong to a haulage truck. Unfortunately," Benny finally got to his feet, looking as discouraged as Ray had ever seen him, "unfortunately for Sally the track grows cold here because the road is so busy... a hundred trucks or more must have gone down this road in the last week."

Ray sought to reassure him. "Yeah, so like you say, Benny, we don't have that much." The famous Vecchio cheek offensive might cheer his friend up. "You've got enough here to write her autobiography."

"You mean biography, Ray. You can't write someone else's autobiography."

"Yeah, whatever. Listen, let's get this info down to the station, whatcha say?"

Fraser nodded his affirmative, and Ray pulled out his car keys. He jauntily twirled the keyrings and walked over to the riv with a spring in his step. It felt good to be finally getting somewhere.

...

Simmons is waiting for them as they break down the door. He has thought of running, of course. That is what one does when pursued by angry mobsters on the one hand, and vengeful police men on the other. He's heard about the raid on the dry cleaners, and knows that whatever is going to happen will happen soon.

He sits in a wooden chair, facing the door, with a loaded gun in his hand. If Wong's men come through the door he is going to shoot himself in the head. If the police come through he is going to hand himself in. It is a form of Russian roulette. He is actually smiling as he strokes the smooth metal of the gun. He has never risked his everything before. It was always someone else's life on the line. It feels strange to finally be the one balanced on the edge of infinity, but he must have known this day would come. He has never felt the blood fizzing in the tiny capillaries of his fingers and toes before, and he has never before loved the beat of his own heart.

He hears them tramping up the stairs, even though they are supposed to be quiet. Police then, he thinks, too many to be gangsters. Gangsters would come by two or three at the most. However, he has engaged in chemical warfare against the police and they must see him as little better than a terrorist. Therefore the police in this case will be coming with a whole crew, a battering ram, gloved and booted, in full body armour. Gangsters could glide in and out and not be noticed. Everyone notices the cops.

He hears his neighbours closing doors, argued conversations dropping silent, and feels that sullen malaise that comes upon rough neighbourhoods when the law turns up.

He has lived in these kinds of dumps for fifteen years, since his research project failed, and all those unfortunate deaths ruined his reputation forever. He could never return to the scientific community, but he has no skills, no skills to live like this at all. It wasn't his fault that he'd become the kind of man he is, a fixer, a tinkerer, when he could have changed the world. This job for Wang, that would have been it. He would have been free to go where he wanted. But now the room, chilly with damp, and smudged charcoal grey with mildew has become so beautiful to him.

He keeps smiling at the door.

Whatever happens now he'll never be alive like this again.

He keeps the gun to his temple, just in case he has miscalculated, and fixes his eyes on the door.

Bang. The sound sends a shock wave through him, reminding him of what he holds in his hand. The metal is slippery against his palm... sweat, he thinks dispassionately, and lightly touches the tip of his tongue to the skin beneath his moustache, to taste the salt and know that he is still alive. His mind is clear, but his body is terrified of the gun.

Bang. He jerks again.

Bang. The door is down, and the cops swarm in.

…

Things started moving when they brought Simmons in. The poisoner, or as he called himself the analytic chemist did not just start to talk, he poured out information in a flood, giving them his formulas, explaining which plants and insects he had derived the active ingredients from, and the best counter agents. He spilled his guts about Wong, everything he knew about him, to everyone from Elaine to the FBI.

And then Elaine had Vecchio on the line, and the look on her face stopped everyone in their tracks. Welsh started barking out orders, sending people to the library, shouting, "don't contaminate the evidence, we need some prints back." And when the team returned grinning from ear to ear everybody knew that they had enough on Wong to actually bring him down.

The mood became celebratory, practically festive.

"Try not to mess it up this time, boys," the Lieutenant told the FBI, causing maximum embarrassment and irritation all round. Welsh contained his grin. It was worth it to see the guys squirm.

When Vecchio and Fraser came into the bullpen they were greeted by a wall of applause. Fraser bent his head, nervously rubbing his eyebrow, and Ray stretched out his arms in a tee shape, turning around in a circle to take in the whole room, gesturing with his hands, 'go on, keep it up.' The noise eventually abated, to be replaced by manly claps on the shoulders, and variations on the theme of "well done."

Welsh was leaning at an angle against his office door, massive and bullish, arms folded across his chest. It was hard to tell, but it almost looked as though he was smiling.

"Pleased to see you back to work, Constable," he said, gruffly, "we were worried about you."

"Well, yes, Sir, thank you, Sir... I was rather worried about myself."

"Any after effects?"

"Well, not as such. I'm still somewhat fatigued, but I'm sure a decent night's sleep should mend that."

"Well, before you take your well deserved rest, you might as well hear what's been going on." There was no doubt about it any more, Welsh was definitely smiling. "Following your lead at the library we did indeed find several sets of finger prints. Cleaners and librarians of course, but also Mr Wong's."

"That's great," Ray enthused. "Did you get the two kids fingerprints?" He shook his head. "What am I thinking, they won't be in the system, they're not perps."

"No, we didn't get their fingerprints, but the library's records show that they were both in the library that day."

"So," Ray said, "all we have to do is bring in Wong."

"And bring in the victims," Fraser added. "Remember how unhelpful he was last time? He won't tell us where he's hidden Bao and Sally."

Ray looked at the Lieutenant. "I think we should follow him, Sir," he said, "we can keep this thing quiet for a few hours, I think we should have someone tail him and see where he leads us."

"He must already know that we've taken in Simmons," Welsh said, "but I don't think he'd guess that Simmons would talk. He probably thinks he's got more on Simmons than the other way round."

"Yeah, makes sense," said Ray. "Understood," said Fraser.

Welsh looked at them appraisingly. "Are you two up to it? You look beat."

"We're fine," Fraser said, earnestly, then, sounding as though he was quoting someone, "'we started, so we'll finish...'"

"Yeah, you need a Mountie on the case," Ray said, and grinned slyly, throwing in his own quote. "You know what they say, they always get their man."

Welsh spread his hands out in a benevolent gesture. "All right. We'll put you and some other guys on it, but be careful out there. And you," he glared at Fraser. "I know I'm not your boss, but I want to be real clear on something... you've been through a lot, so no heroics, okay?"

"Understood."

Welsh sighed, then pushed himself from the door frame, and walked to the middle of the room. "Can I have everybody's attention please?" He glared around the bullpen until utter silence fell. "This is the plan. For the next few hours nobody is allowed in or out except on important police matters. No nipping out to buy donuts, nothing. And no bragging on the phone to moms and wives, okay? We're going to keep this tight, and to ourselves for the next few hours. Now, I'm going to need a few good men to join Vecchio and Fraser here. Sadly I don't have them, so I'll have to make do with you lot instead. Huey, Louie..."

As Welsh called out names and organised details Fraser leaned sideways to Ray and muttered, "you know Ray, I'm sure I've mentioned this already, but that's really not our motto... Mounties often get our man, but not always. You were quoting a film."

"Yeah? They made a film about Mounties? Who'd want to watch Mounties on screen? You're all so... red. You'd give people headaches."

"It was a black and white film, Ray."

"That's even worse. And I take it it was a Canadian movie?"

"Yes, Ray, it was."

"So a black and white Canadian film about Mounties."

"Yes, Ray."

"And that's where you get your slogan from?"

"Well, not exactly, the movie popularised an already extant cliché. However our actual motto is 'maintain the right,' or as the French have it 'ma...'"

"Vechio, Constable Fraser... if you don't mind joining the rest of the class?"

"Thank you, Lieutenant!" Ray grinned. He loved Benny, but sometimes the guy could rant...

Welsh scowled round the room for silence and rolled out a map.

"Okay, boys," he said, ignoring the fact that one of the detectives assigned to stake out was a woman, "I'll want cars here, here, here and here. I want you all to remember what you learned in basic training, but more importantly what you've learned on the streets. If he makes any of you for cops then we might well lose our chance of finding out where these kids are stashed."

He looked round and nodded. They were intent and focussed. They would do.

"Okay people, move it, move it." He shooed them from the room.

At the first moment's silence he looked up at the ceiling. Hi there God, he thought conversationally, I know we don't talk a lot, but I'm sure you understand. There's not a lot of point talking to someone you don't believe in. But just in case I'm wrong, could you help us get these kids?

He went back behind his desk. It felt like a great big anchor, pulling him down. He knew that he was desk bound by necessity, that he was good at this stuff. He was envious though. Tonight it felt like the real police work was out there.

…

"We're moving," Huey's voice crackled over the wire, and Ray sat up alert behind the wheel. "Okay, he's heading past the library, turning right... we're going to peel off now. Okay, whoever is by the docks, you should be seeing him about now."

Fraser leaned forward, staring through the darkness, with his hat balanced on the dashboard. "I see him."

"Okay, we've got him," Ray confirmed. "He's just made a left turn, looks like he's heading to the warehouses."

Fraser knuckled his forehead and muttered, "he doesn't have any warehouses listed here. I thought he might have them stashed on one of the boats."

"He's probably put them somewhere we can't trace, a property under a false name, or an associate is holding them for him," Ray said. "We mightn't have found them even with a warrant to search his business records." He put the car gently into motion. Sadly, it wasn't his beloved riv, but then A, he didn't want to risk her, and B she did stand out a bit. For once he was driving at a speed that didn't make Fraser nervous.

Up ahead Wong's smooth lined limo eased to a halt. Obviously he had no idea he was being followed, or he'd have chosen a more inconspicuous vehicle. Ray parked up at some distance from the scene. The inside of the car was thick with silence. Ahead of them Wong was talking to his driver, a very thin woman, and to a very fat man who judging by his broom appeared to be some sort of janitor. The woman laughed. Ray couldn't hear it, but he could see it in the way she tossed her head, and the flick of her hair. Once courtesies were out of the way they went in.

"He's gone into warehouse seven," Ray put it through, "we're going after them." Quickly he snapped off the walky talky before somebody could order them to stay in their vehicles. In less than a moment Ray and Fraser were out of the car and running, bent low, staying close to the sides of buildings.

Pausing behind a big dumpster they took a breath. There in front of them was a side door, a way in.

"You reckon this is safe Fraser?"

"No, Ray, not particularly."

Ray laughed under his breath. "Back to normal then?"

"Yes Ray." Fraser smiled, and took the moment to put his hat on. "Back to normal." Then he smiled, made a hush gesture, and began to creep forward. Ray was right behind him.

…

Sally is cradling Bao on her lap, and gentling him with her awful Chinese, and he's laughing at her through the pain, and trying to sing. He's hot, and very dry, and she thinks this might be the end.

Wong walks through the door, and she stops. She doesn't want that man to know their intimacies. She is fury incarnate, wants to kill him, but her legs don't seem to be working any more, and she doesn't move.

"Well, what a touching scene," Wong says. "You look like a Pieta. Though we all know that you're no Madonna."

She says nothing, stares sullen beneath her brows.

…

"What's this crap," Ray whispered, brushing dusty whiteness from his coat. "It's not more soap is it?"

Fraser traced his fingers across the dusty powder and licks. "Rice dust, Ray."

"So all those bags?"

"Rice, I would assume."

"Great, because the last thing we need is for the place to go off like the Fourth of July again."

"Absolutely." Fraser pointed. "You see those tracks?"

The dim light of the warehouse was taking some getting used to. Ray squinted in the gloom. "Not really."

"Wong's associates seem to have gone that way, and Wong himself is through that door."

"Where will the kids be?"

Fraser sighed. "We'll have to guess."

Ray sympathised with his friend's anxious expression. Guess work wasn't always Benny's strong suit. "Well, my guess is that Wong has gone to see his guests. He wouldn't travel all the way out here just for the view."

"When will backup be getting here?"

"Shouldn't be long. Ten minutes?"

Fraser looked at the door, biting his lower lip. "That might be too long," he said.

Ray nodded. "After you," he said.

The two men began to creep towards the door.

...

"You know," Wong says, casually, as though they were having the most normal of conversations, "I'm glad that you two met. Under normal circumstances you, Miss Cooper, would never have come to my attention. But you know, you did hurt Harry. He found me, you know. Tragic, really. If you had never left him for this unfortunate young man then Harry would never have betrayed you."

No, she thinks, he'd have married me for my inheritance instead. "He's not doing this for love," she says, tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth, "just the money."

"Well, that's an honest ambition, don't you think?"

She curls her lip, and wishes she could spit.

Wong laughs and pulls out a gun.

…

The door eased open, and Fraser stepped through it sideways. He saw the girl's eyes register his arrival, and lifted a finger to his lip. In front of him Wong was steadying his aim, gun pointed at the young couple. Fraser launched himself, a full body tackle, and brought his enemy to the ground. The gun went off, two, three times, harmlessly punching holes in a large sack of rice which began to bleed its contents to the floor. Ray had stepped in immediately behind Fraser, gun at the ready, but on seeing the kids (my God, they're children he thought) ran to their aid, skidding slightly on the rolling grains.

Fraser was mirandizing Wong, using the man's tie to bind him to the radiator. Ray was unbuttoning the boy's shirt, trying to cool him down. "Benny, do you know where there's water? These kids are burning over here."

Fraser turned to respond, then saw a shambles of a man coming through the door. His belly hung over slack tracksuit bottoms, and he wore, incongruously, a T-shirt with a picture of Christopher Lee as Dracula. "Are you finished in here now boss," the man said in Cantonese. Wong called back in English, "what the hell are the cops doing here, did you let them follow you?" The fat man fully entered the room, gun in hand. He stared, slack jawed, from his boss to the two cops, to the two kids, as if trying to figure out who to shoot first.

"Put down the gun," Fraser said in Cantonese. "You don't want to do this."

The man looked frightened and not very bright. He was blinking a lot, with a childish look on his face. The kind of poor schmuk that gangsters take advantage of, Ray thought, the slow kid who the bullies bait into taking the blame.

Fraser was thinking of him as Lenny from Of Mice and Men. He continued to speak to him gently in Cantonese.

"You don't want to shoot us, do you?"

The man shook his head dolefully.

"So, why don't you put down the gun?"

"The boss will be angry."

"I'm already angry you bloody idiot!" Chang shouted, again in English. Amanda didn't speak Chinese, and he knew that if he gave her warning she would run. The last thing he needed was for her to be captured and give testimony against him. Then in Cantonese he gave the order, "shoot them, shoot them now, or they'll have you and your mother arrested."

The large man gave a watery blink, and looked at the police again with suspicion hardening behind his sad eyes.

"We won't harm your mother," Fraser said.

"He's lying," Chang said, "you know the police. They're the same in any country."

Lenny, as Fraser was thinking of him, set his jaw, and raised the gun. "You won't hurt my mother," he said, and stepped back.

And stepped back...

Right onto the glossy white pool of rice. It rolled beneath his feet with a thousand tiny ball-bearings and he fell backwards against the sack, gun discharging at the ceiling.

"Sorry, sorry boss..." The bag had split completely under his weight, rice pouring everywhere. He looked around at the mess, apologetically, and throwing the gun down started trying to sweep it up with his hands. Ray came up to him, cautiously, and knelt by him. He gave Fraser a puzzled look, then took Lenny gently by the wrists and cuffed him. The man made no effort to resist, mournfully continuing in his attempts to scoop the spilled rice back into the damaged sack.

Ray looked at Fraser and gave a wry grin. "Useful information," he said. "Always remember to spill rice when arresting a Chinese vampire."


	9. Chapter 9

The case made the front pages. 'Top Business Man in Major Fraud,' 'The Fall of a Crime Lord,' 'Star Crossed Lovers' being amongst the most sensible headlines. Bao took a few weeks to recover, Sally slightly less. On leaving the hospital she visited her father in prison, and promptly wished that she hadn't. Defiantly she told the world proudly about her love for Bao, and the two moved in together, despite her family's prejudice. Hollywood sent agents to buy rights to their story, and they remained staunch in their refusal, while Bao's mother loved Sally like a daughter.

Wong tried to make a deal with the FBI, but they threw the book at him.

Simmons got life and no parole, but avoided the chair for his many crimes by testifying against Wong, and others who had hired him as a specialist hitman.

Lenny received a reduced sentence due to his learning disabilities, and painted a picture of him and his mother which he sent to the station as a thank you for not arresting her.

Amanda was apprehended fleeing the scene.

Ray and Fraser, meanwhile, had a difficult few days trying to avoid MacKenzie King, who seemed to consider them under a moral duty to give her an exclusive.

"It's easy for you, Benny," Ray pointed out, "at least she can't phone you in the middle of the night."

"Unfortunately, she knows where I live. She's proving quite hard to shake."

"You should lock your door sometimes."

"She'd probably just pick it."

"You get that a lot do you, beautiful women breaking into your bedroom?"

Fraser cleared his throat, and tried to look innocent.

"Look, Ma's back, and you know she's been worrying about you, so how about you come over tonight? It will make her day for a week. Mind you, the whole family's back, so you'll have Frannie to fight off."

Fraser smiled. "I don't mind Frannie, I'm sure she's only teasing."

"Yeah... right." Ray knew that Fraser knew better, but his friend was nothing if not a gentleman, and liked to give people more credit than they deserved.

"Yes, Dief and I would be happy to come. Can I bring anything?"

"Just yourself."

Dinner was excellent, and Fraser ate far more than he was used to. Despite the chaos and noise, the children crawling under the table and stealing food off one another's plates, there was a calm about the Vecchio's that always put him at his ease. Growing up he had loved his Grandparents dearly, but it had been a largely solitary childhood, if not quite a lonely one. He envied Ray his home.

As evening drew in and the children went to bed the adults congregated in the living room. Fraser did his best to keep up with the conversation, but found it hard to concentrate. He fought it, but in the end he closed his eyes.

"What are you doing here Dad?" His father stood smiling in the centre of the room, a green garment hanging over his arm, as though he were carrying dry cleaning, completely ignored by the still talking Vecchio's. Fraser had a flutter of alarm. "I'm not in your afterlife, am I?"

"No. No, Son, don't worry. You're just dreaming."

"So, you're not really here?"

"Of course I'm really here. Good Lord, Son, do you never learn?"

"Well, it is a little confusing, you have to admit."

"I wanted to ask you, what were you making with these cabbage leaves?"

Fraser puzzled. He couldn't quite remember. "I thought they were fig leaves..."

"Fig leaves, cabbage leaves... same thing."

"I'd have thought they were two entirely different things."

Bob smiled. "What are you hiding from, Son?"

"I'm not hiding," Fraser rubbed his face. "Why would I be hiding?"

"You know, you have good friends here, you can open up a little bit." Bob handed Benny the garment, and this being a dream patted his son fondly on the face. "You don't have to always cover your nakedness."

"This is odd Dad, even for you."

"Good night, Son," the old man said, "sweet dreams."

…

Ray looked over, and saw Fraser asleep on the sofa, with Dief's head in his lap. He smiled, and tucked a blanket round his friend.


End file.
